


Symphony of Gales

by chartreusegale



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Action/Adventure, Dialogue Heavy, Final Fantasy XIV: Heavensward Spoilers, Gen, Patch 2.0: A Realm Reborn Spoilers, Sky Pirates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:40:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 40,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23306206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chartreusegale/pseuds/chartreusegale
Summary: The Songs of the Wind are having a tough time living a life of freedom and crime. It’s about to get a lot worse when it turns out one of them is the Warrior of Light.
Relationships: G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Warrior of Light
Comments: 2
Kudos: 22





	1. Storm's Overture

**Author's Note:**

> All characters are pulled from name generator or made up.  
> The WoL is my own character, who just looks too cool and cute in a sky pirate’s vest of aiming, which inspired all of this.

“Shoo, you damned pests, get out of there!” A curse, punctuated by a gunshot sends the crystal doblyns scattering from the open engine compartment.

Kiria dus Sanvis scowls at the mess the annoying parasites have created and stalks over to the open compartment to make sure nothing important has been broken.

“Simonaud!” she bellows with all her might, searching for her Engineer, “Where is your shite-stained looking idiot face!?” 

“My apologies, my Captain.” An elegant voice comes from behind as an equally elegant Elezen man steps down the ramp of the airship, “I was having my afternoon tea indoors, as it is a trifle windier outside than I would normally care for.”

“Get out here and check the engine again,” Kiria says, her temper flaring, “Or I swear to the Emperor’s pimpled ass I will make you eat those damned teacups with a fork!”

“By Halone, she is a tad enraged this afternoon...” the man mutters to himself before retreating back into the ship, “...interrupting afternoon tea of all things…it’s not like the Garleans are going anywhere any time soon...”

One would think that after the revelations about the crew’s wayward child they heard today, they would be moving about with a little more urgency.

Experienced Sky Pirates or no, the Songs of the Wind are certainly treading new skies. Especially now that it has been revealed that one of their crewmembers is the verysame eikon-slaying, Garlean eating Warrior of Light that the children of Mor Dhona played as. 

Kiria had thought the sole member they had sent out into the local adventuring guilds to fund the repairs of their ship had been doing little jobs like bodyguarding or waiting tables. Based on what gil the girl managed to send back to them, that was the only reasonable conclusion.

Instead, as it turns out, she has been gallivanting across the continent with the Scions of the Seventh Dawn, throwing primal beasts off cliffs, slaying entire Garlean hosts singlehandedly and mending the relationships between all the citystates of Eorzea. And for her troubles, she is being paid worse than a waitress at a seedy tavern in a hollowed out hole in the slums of Ul’dah.

That innocent child, bless her heart, hasn’t thought to ask for any help from her own damned crew no matter how many beastmen primals she has been thrown at. Until today, when the entire realm is at risk of falling to the yoke of Garlean tyranny, and a Scion thought having an airship at their disposal would be nice.

“I swear you idiots are going to get me killed far before my time with your ridiculous requests…” she growls. The engine seems mostly fine, the doblyns have been much more interested in finding The Engineer’s hidden sandwich in his toolbox rather than wreaking havoc with the open compartment.

She looks around the beach shore, searching for the rest of her crew, growing increasingly irate when she fails to find them. 

“WHERE IS MY CERULEUM!?” she roars.

The Muscle of the crew pops her head out from behind a few rocks. Expert in all things combative, Brynhilde Firecry does not quite match the physical expectations of one with her title.

“Oh, Captain!” The small Hyur girl says excitedly, rushing over, “You should see all the Ceruleum tanks I got from ambushing that convoy!”

“If you got so many, then why is my ship not fueled and ready for liftoff!?”

“I’ve got them nicely lined up out in the Singing Shards,” the pretty Hyur says with the most innocent smile that could ever be painted on such an adorable face, “I’m going to blow them all up ALL in one go, and it will be MAGNIFICENT!”

The excited smile on her angelic face one might find on a playing child grows ever wider into a grin so viciously wide her face is nearly split in two.

“THE HEAVENS WILL ROIL WITH AGONY AS THE CALAMITY REBORN WILL RAGE ACROSS THE LAND IN TRIBUTE TO NONE OTHER THAN, I, BRYNHILDE OF THE FLAMES WHO WILL-”

Kiria steps forward, and lifts the small girl into the air by the shirt with one hand, interrupting her maniacal diatribe.

“Get. Those. Tanks. Here. Now.” she says, enunciating every single syllable, her face no more than an ilm away from the girl’s, “Intact. No flames. Not a single one. Understood?”

“Yes, Captain.” Brynhilde says meekly before rushing off to retrieve the tanks she had previously planned to explode.

Kiria massages her temples with one hand. Warriors of Light. Primal Slaying. And now assaulting an Imperial garrison to stop an unstoppable weapon. It all sounds like a fairytale, honestly. But then again, what better stage for a Sky Pirate’s creed to shine?

“W’sidra, you bleedin’ idiot! Where are you!?” The Captain calls for her pilot loudly.

“What’s up?” the young woman chirps, nonchalantly stepping out of the grounded airship. Her furry tail swishes casually as she steps down the ramp, munching on a sandwich.

“By all that is holy, we’ve been looking for you since this morning, woman!” Kiria snaps at the Miqo’te, “Where the bloody hell were you when Ciriana called?”

Two furry ears perk up at the mention of the last member of the crew, “Ech, what’s got yer panties in such a bunch?” the girl retorts, “The kid sick? In prison? We gunna bust her out or what?”

“Worse,” Kiria replies flatly. “She’s a hero,”

“What?”

“And we need to go pick her up and assault the Praetorium as soon as we can.”

The Pilot seems to freeze for a moment, while a thought slowly grinds its way through her head.

“Thal’s balls that sounds amazing!” she exclaims, punching a fist into her palm, “I love it! We’ve been grounded so long I’ve practically forgotten what fun was like!”

“Flying through the middle of a warzone directly into a Garlean Fortress?” she cackles ecstatically before grabbing a box of packed gear and dashing back into the ship. “This is going to be AMAZING!”

“A little help over here, Cap’n!” a rough voice shouts from the roadside.

A massive Sea Wolf Roegadyn, Haermhimal, is struggling with a cart filled with cases and cases of ammunition. His grip is rather imbalanced on the handles, what with him only having but a single hand, and an almost cartoonish metal hook in place of his right.

Kiria rushes over to help her First Mate.

“You sure about this, Cap’n?” the sky pirate asks, “I never thought I’d hear a more ridiculous plan than what grounded us here in this predicament…”

“Hey!” Kiria protests, “That plan was perfect, that dreadnought was practically ours, I just didn’t realize it needed that many people to keep it flying!”

“Charity work ain’t us, Cap’n.” the man grumbles, “Leave the savin’ of the world to ‘em Grand Companies. Let’s just grab the girl and run off again. Back to Ishgard or something. Plundering them nobles ain’t ever gettin’ old.”

Kiria flashes a grin at the grumpy Roegadyn.

“Never you fear, Haermhimal,” she reassures him, “I’ve got a plan.”

“You had that same twinkle in your eye when you said we were going to steal a Garlean dreadnought.”

“And it worked! Almost!” She reminds him with utmost confidence.

They drag the cases of ammunition up the cargo ramp and unload them quickly.

“Go check up on Simonaud and help him out with the engine.” she orders, “Then go call the girl again on her linkpearl and make sure the Eorzeans don’t try to shoot us out of the sky when we show up.”

“Roger that, Cap’n.” the man acknowledges, but hesitates, “Just think of my suggestion. We can always run.”

“Ha!” Kiria barks out a laugh, “And still call ourselves proper Sky Pirates? What’s our motto again? To run and hide the moment an eft rears its head?”

The First Mate sighs and responds with the motto the Captain had ensured they could all recite by heart, “We prey on the strong, ‘cuz it’s a more beautiful song.”

“Damn right.” Kiria declares, “We’re the bloody Songs of the Wind, what’s the XIVth Legion to the realm’s finest Sky Pirates!?”

Hardly inspired by her pep talk, her First Mate begrudgingly climbs the ladder back up to the main body of the ship to carry out his orders.

  
  
  


A few short hours of whipping her crew into shape, and Kiria dus Sanvis now stands at the helm of a fully functional and hopefully fully fueled Garlean Harrier-class Carrier Warship.

“She lives!” The Pilot cackles in glee as the Ceruleum engine roars to life. W’sidra had likely been the only one as dejected as The Captain herself at their long sojourn aground.

“Turns out just a little hustle was needed to finally get her flyin fit again.” she says, nodding at the various flickering lights across the control panels.

The Engineer lets out a deep sigh of relief, “Oh thank Halone we have not exploded, I really had no idea that was going to work.” the man pats himself on his own back with a sense of accomplishment, “I suppose with four times as much time for such a normal repair procedure, I had the opportunity to ensure my work was of the highest quality.”

“By the grace of the heavens, it has been too long.” Kiria sighs happily, as she takes her seat behind the Pilot and breathing in deep of the ceruleum exhaust slowly filling the cabin.

Four months aground is four months too long. Their unfortunate encounter with a Garlean dreadnought, and their even more ill fated attempts to steal the massive warship may have put them into this predicament, but now that the ordeal is over, Kiria is ready to completely forget it ever happened.

She was born to be a Sky Pirate, and she never felt quite right in her own skin without the thrum of a ceruleum engine beneath her feet, and the scent of exhaust in the air.

“Is it supposed to smell like that in here?” Brynhilde asks, sniffing at the air, “It smells...like explosions…”

“Oh no…oh no, Halone spare us...” Simonaud cries as he begins to sprint down the short hall of the ship to the engine, “I put it on backwards...I PUT IT ON BACKWARDS!”

“By the Twelve I’ll make sure we don’t bloody explode ‘afore the Garleans kill us.” Haermhimal rushes after the Elezen into the engine room.

Completely ignoring the engineering tribulations going on behind them, Kiria looks only skybound and upwards.

“Alright, W’sidra, to the skies!” Kiria orders triumphantly, with a fist pointed up to the blue sky she loves so dearly, completely ignoring the complete mental breakdown her engineer is undergoing.

“Woohoo!” the Miqo’te cheers along with her as she pulls some levers and hits a few buttons, “If only Ciriana were here to see this!”

The ground rumbles beneath them as the ship begins outputting a massive downward force fired out by a powerful ceruleum engine. Each of them grab hold of something nailed down as the ship rocks back and forth, like a child remembering how to walk.

“Let’s go pick up our little sister!” Captain Kiria declares before swinging her arm forward, “To the battlefront! Wind’s Waltz, LAUNCH!”

On unsteady wings, the Wind’s Waltz rises through the air, spewing ceruleum gas within and without, and after far too many months spent on land, the Songs of the Wind glide through the skies, onward to adventure and almost certain death.

* * *

Kiria dus Sanvis did not know what to expect when she retrieved her little Sky Pirate. She expected  _ something  _ to have changed. Maybe an otherworldly glow, or a halo on top of her head. Something. Anything. And yet the young lizard-like woman looks more or less exactly the same as the day she left. No extra light or warrior to the one known as the crew’s Blade.

Ciriana’s sort is rare, at least as far as the Songs of the Wind have travelled. Black scales, dusty grey skin and aggressively pointed horns are apparently common to the Azim Steppe, the land from whence she hailed before her unfortunate involuntary sojourn in Garlemald.

Like the Muscle, her thin Auri figure hardly seemed suited to one of the two combat roles of the crew, but the Blade’s affable demeanour and almost fragile appearance belied her intense martial prowess, a trait characteristic of her people.

She looks no different, no worse for wear. She still sports her sky pirate’s vest and the very fashionable cloth eyepatch W’sidra had made for her. And most importantly of all, she still has that vaguely kind and happy demeanour about her, where nothing is too much trouble for her, and no request for help is too selfish.

“Are you sure you’re the Warrior of Light?” W’sidra asks what they are all thinking, glancing at them through the mirror at the helm.

“Well, that’s what they’ve been callin’ me.” The softspoken girl replies with a shrug. “Those daydreams I been havin’, it’s whats called the Echo, they said.” She taps the “Kept Ifrit from tempering my mind, at least.”

“Tempering WHAT?” Haermhimal exclaims, “By Llymlaen’s teats, what in the hells did they make you do?”

“Oh, I was just helpin’.” The girl says dismissively with a shrug, “Ain’t no harm done.”

“Surely they must have you paid you handsomely then, no?”

The hopelessly naive Au Ra tilts her head and shrugs, “I just sent you all I made out there. They kept me fed.”

“THAT WAS ALL OF IT?” the rest of the crew shouts incredulously.

“Well, I’m gettin’ um....” the girl digs a small crumpled paper out of her pocket, “9082 gil for takin’ out the Garleans today.”

Simonaud takes the small paper from her, “The girl has not misread.” he says, unable to hide his disbelief, “Surely this must be a joke…”

“I don’t really mind.” she says innocently, “Times ‘ve been tough. What with them Garlean ambushes and all.”

Kiria’s face emerges from her palm as the others begin to fuss over their fellow pirate.

A small chuckle escapes from her, which slowly grows into a giggle and then finally fullblown laughter.

“MWAAHHAHHAHHAHAHAAA” she laughs triumphantly as the rest stop their squabbling and stare at her like she has lost her mind.

“They think to borrow  _ my _ little pirate and swing her about like a cudgel for such a mere pittance?” she asks to nobody in particular, “They enlist  _ my  _ ship simply as a ferry for  _ my _ crew to defeat a Garlean warmachine?”

“HA!” she exclaims loudly, “Know that the Song sung by the Wind itself never goes where you expect it to!”

She spins around to face the cockpit and confidently places her hands on her hips, displaying her charismatic back to the crew behind her.

“I am Kiria dus Sanvis!” she declares to the sky itself, “Captain of the Wind’s Waltz and the First Song of the Wind, Freedom’s Ditty!”

“W’sidra! Change course!” she orders.

“Whew.” Haermhimal lets out a deep sigh of relief, “I thought for a moment we were actually going to go on this suicide run just for those Eorzan shite-eating cowards.”

“We’re approaching the Castrum from the South instead!”

“Eh?” the Pilot asks with surprise, “I thought we were to drop her off at the landing pads at Castrum Meridianum all sneaky-like.”

“I’ve got a plan. We head for the Praetorium directly!” 

“So...flying through the battlefield itself…” W’sidra’s mouth twists into an almost malicious grin, “Ooh, this is going to be fun.”

“Oh no…” the First Mate pushes his hands into his face.

“Saving Eorzea for barely ten thousand gil?” Kiria asks, holding up a hand dramatically, “Defending Eorzea against the Garlean threat for  _ free _ ?” she holds up her other hand as if displaying wares to compare. “What kind of Sky Pirates are we? No...I’ve got a much better idea for our reward.”

She looks back at the Pirates behind her and grins viciously.

“We’re going to steal the Ultima Weapon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reward for fighting the Ultima Weapon is actually 9038 gil. The Alliance is a little stingy in paying their contractors.


	2. Thief's Theme

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a grossly defective plan is born, prematurely.

“Oh, don’t worry, we don’t need that.” W’sidra mentions offhand as the ship rocks violently side to side.

Visibility is poor as smoke from a hundred smoking Magitek machines explode beneath them. Dozens of Garlean ships dart about the battlefield, weaving through an intricate web of airborne fire spells.

“Need what?” Haermhimal asks, clearly afraid to hear the answer as he holds on tightly to the bulkhead.

“That.” W’sidra points out the window as a large piece of the Wind’s Waltz falls tears off in the wind, metal screaming in protest on its way out.

“WE REALLY, REALLY DID NEED THAT!” Simonaud screams in a higher than normal pitch as he runs down the hall to the engine room.

“Hands on the wheel, woman!” Haermhimal snaps, his eyes nearly bulging out of his face as the Pilot adjusts her steering to account for the rather significant lost weight.

“We’re fiiiine.” she assures them, “I’m not just any pilot, I’m a 10 time Gold Saucer Chocobo racing champion!”

“You keep saying that, but what does chocobo racing have  _ anything _ to do with driving an airship?!”

“Not much, honestly.” comes the frank reply, “But it’s probably-”

The ship suddenly banks hard to the right, mashing all of them into the closest wall. A distant shout of pain comes from the engine room followed by the sound of something igniting.

“Whew, almost got clipped by that one.” she observes as a massive fireball flies past them.

“No, go back! Let me say hi to the flames!” Brynhilde complains and sticks her face to the window to watch their death soar past them.

“Couldn’t you have asked the Alliance to  _ not _ shoot us?” The First Mate asks desperately.

“All part of the plan!” Kiria replies cheerfully, “Wouldn’t we look mighty suspicious if they just let us through? W’sidra’s got this.”

“You keep talking about this plan of yours,” Haermhimal says, “But would you mind letting us in on it too so that we can at least die knowing it was going to happen anyway?”

“I’m sure we’ll manage.” Ciriana says nonchalantly, sitting in her chair as comfortably as if she were on a luxury cruise ship on a slightly windy day, rather than 3/4s of a Magitek airship crashing its way through a battlefield.

The ship stabilizes a little and the smoke begins to clear as they make it past the bulk of the fighting.

“Well the Garleans aren’t as interested in shooting us,” W’sidra comments with mild disappointment, “Looks like they at least recognize this old model.” She slaps the steering wheel affectionately.

She spins her chair around, leaving only one hand on the controls, presumably to show how comfortable she is flying. She only seems to succeed in making Haermhimal increasingly nervous with every degree the ship begins to veer to the left.

“So what’s the plan, Cap’n?”

“It’s simple,” she says, with a confident chuckle, “We’re going to fly right into Castrum Meridianum, pass the impregnable barrier, land on the Praetorium, sneak into the fortress, find the Ultima Weapon, use it to blast our way out, load it onto the Wind’s Waltz and fly to freedom and the great blue skies!”

“To Freedom and the great blue skies!” the more excitable members of the crew cheer along with her.

“You’re missing a number of details,” Haermhimal comments, not getting caught up in the enthusiasm of the others, “In fact, I’d say you’re missing just about all of them.”

“Confidence is the key to success, my dear First Mate.” Kiria replies dismissively, with what is likely far too much confidence, “We’ll figure it out, I believe in the crew!”

“I’m not sure if the Ultima Weapon is going to fit in the cargo hold…” Ciriana says quietly, looking around the room, appraising the size of the ship, “It ain’t much smaller than the Waltz herself.”

“We’ll squeeze it in, toss out some of the ol’ camping gear.” The Captain replies, reassuringly, “It’ll be fine!”

Despite having been the only one to have actually seen the Ultima Weapon, Ciriana nods, believing her Captain’s words over her own experience.

“Better get the communicator ready, and your story straight, Cap’n,” W’sidra says, “We’re coming up on Castrum Meridianum right now, and I think the ship just might be on fire.”

“IT’S DEFINITELY ON FIRE!” Simonaud shrieks from the engine room, while Brunhilde laughs, cheering on the inferno in the heart of the vessel.

“Probably on fire.” W’sidra corrects herself as she turns back to the front. She holds out the radio transceiver to the Captain, “They’re hailing us now.”

“Attention, unmarked Harrier class ship, you are definitely on fire.” The radio crackles to life with a slightly concerned voice, “We highly recommend you change course and head for maintenance pad 41-B. Oh wow, that looks bad, are you sure you don’t want to bail out?”

Kiria takes the device from the Pilot and stares at it blankly for a moment while Haermhimal starts muttering prayers to the gods of the sea.

She glances at her crew. Simonaud runs about in the back, chasing flames and extinguishing them with a teapot. Brynhilde stands near him, literally fanning the flames and clapping as they engulf more of the very thing keeping them from crashing into the ground. W’sidra sits perfectly still, laser focused on balancing the ship despite having lost most of the right side of the vessel. Last but not least, Cirianasits nonchalantly in her chair, simply watching her captain with curiosity at what her next step is going to be. 

The look in her eye is not the vapid, blind obedience to an authority so many others have. It is utmost trust, not out of gratitude or guilt, but trust forged of friendship and love. 

“Uuuuh, Unmarked Harrier ship, everything OK?” the radio buzzes to life once more, “We will  _ probably  _ have to shoot you down if you don’t respond…”

Kiria’s mouth twists into a vicious smile as her plan comes together.

“Tie yourself up Ciriana.” she orders.

“Roger, Cap’n.” comes the unquestioning acknowledgement.

“Haermhimal, go find those leftover Garlean uniforms from the dreadnought, get me the big one.”

“Well a firing squad sounds better than crashing…” he mutters, immediately catching onto her plan.

“I’m not going to crash, I’ve won races with one legged chocobos before!”

Kiria hushes them all before bringing the communicator to her lips.

“Meridianum Control Tower,” she says in an uncharacteristically formal and commanding voice, “This is Karasvi tol Sanvis of the XIIth Legion, you will open the barrier to the Praetorium and guide us in, and prepare your best engineers to tend to my ship.”

“S-Sanvis? Twelfth!?” the man stammers, “Uh, do you have any-”

“You will have the Legatus Legionis prepare to meet me, as I have brought him a gift he will be most interested in.” she looks at Ciriana who is wholeheartedly committed to tightening the ropes around her wrists with her teeth. “The Warrior of Light herself.”

  
  



	3. A Subtle Minuet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Songs of the Wind execute their plot to steal the Ultima Weapon. They've got a few secrets and secret weapons that will catch the Garleans by surprise. Good thing they're all very good at what they do and no aspect of this plan improvised in a minute will go awry.

Ciriana Haragin is not an educated woman, nor a particularly clever strategist. While she certainly has plenty enough common sense to navigate the world, she does not consider herself to be someone particularly bright.

Her talents are simple, and generally lay in her ability to filet a fully grown Roegadyn four different ways before he could utter a “how do you do”. Stratagem, plots and politics are better left to those with more than a singular mind for violence.

She does not understand why she of all people is blessed with the Echo, much less chosen by Hydaelyn herself to wield her blessing and crystals of Light. To be quite honest, she was rather cross with the revelation, albeit slightly relieved since the alternative was worshipping the Amal’jaa god for the rest of time.

Even so, she had been somewhat worried that some day she would have to choose between flying free through the skies with the Songs of the Wind and being shackled to the will of the mother crystal with the Scions of the Seventh Dawn. 

As kind as the Scions have been to her, could she abandon those who she has lived and laughed with and taught her how to be happy? As much as she wishes for the liberty to be found in the bright blue skies, how long would it be until the doom she is conscripted to fight off engulfs them as well?

And yet with a single sentence, Captain Kiria dus Sanvis, the First Song of the Wind, Freedom’s Ditty had dispelled all concerns in her mind. 

“We’re going to steal the Ultima Weapon.”

The Captain would not abandon her to her fate. The crew, complaining all the way, of course, would not let her go alone into the belly of the enemy. Her duty is now theirs, one they would share together, and they wouldn’t let Scion or Grand Company tell them how to do it. They were Sky Pirates after all. What fun is the song of challenging the calmest of skies?

And so here she stands, in the docking bay of the Praetorium, hands bound tightly and being led about like livestock by a Haermhimal dressed in an extremely ill fitting Praefectus uniform.

The man looks nervous, even underneath his sunglasses. He repeatedly adjusts the bag on his back, and continues to fidget uncomfortably as Kiria puts on the performance of a lifetime.

“We’ll be leaving upon the hour, I want my ship in  _ perfect _ condition ere we return, or it will be  _ your _ heads that will roll if it is not so.”

Without a hint of the lackadaisical air normally about the Captain, she speaks with the authority and entitlement of a woman born to command. A heavy suit of armour fits her powerful Garlean frame with ease, and her normally fun-loving and easy to smile face is obscured by an intimidating metal mask instead.

“Yes, ma’am!” Maintenance crews scurry about to execute on the orders of the apparent Tribunus.

“Pilot, Engineer, ensure their work is completed to  _ my _ standards.”

“Yes, marm!”

If anyone has picked up on the clear Ul’dahn accent, or the fact that Simonaud has definitely performed an Ishgardian salute instead of a Garlean one, they don’t mention a thing. Time for such trivialities is scarce when a Tribunus from the XIIth is having a surprise visit.

An intimidating Garlean man clad from head to toe in red approaches.

“My apologies, Tribunus tol Sanvis,” the man says, with a short bow, “The Legatus will arrive to greet you shortly. As you may imagine from the chaos beyond the walls, there is much for the Legatus to attend to.”

The red helmet turns to Ciriana, “Defanged, this little dragon seems little threat to our strategems.” he looks at the sheathed curved sword at Haermhimal’s waist that is the Warrior of Light’s weapon of choice. “Turns out a savage’s eikon-felling blade is no match for true Garlean Steel after all.”

Despite being slightly shorter than the man, Kiria still somehow manages to look down at him.

“Do the lackeys of the Black Wolf make a habit of wasting the time of their betters with mindless prattle?” she asks, each word dripping with disdain and a powerful demand for respect.

Ciriana can tell the man’s face is pale, even through the helmet.

“M-My apologies.” The man exclaims, “My name is Nero tol Scaeva, Tribunus Laticlavius in charge of the XIVth Frumentarium as well as the Chief Engineer of-”

“An engineer?” Kiria interrupts him, “Excellent, go see to my ship.”

“Beg your pardon, but I am certain the engineers already assigned to-”

“You have tested my patience once already, tol Scaeva.” She rebukes the man forcefully, “Test it a third and the remainder of your life will be spent peeling popotoes. With your feet. Because I will have removed your flapping tongue and fed it to the hounds.”

Even masked, her glare pierces right through the man’s very soul. With only a glance, she dares him to call her out on her poorly worded threat, that she might be justified in exacting a perfectly executed threat upon him.

“Wha…” astounded, and clearly humiliated, the powerful man thinks to say something to salvage his dignity, but manages to swallow his pride before crossing a woman more powerful than he.

He stalks off in a hurry towards the ship, barking orders at the men hurrying around it.

“Is yer family that important?” Ciriana asks out loud, bewildered by the events unfolding before her.

The heavy metal helmet encasing Kiria’s head turns to exact its gaze upon her, and she feels a hint of the terror that must have gone through Nero’s head.

“The defeated are not possessed of the right to words.” she gestures her head at Haermhimal, who simply looks at her with confusion.

She gestures again towards him, then at Ciriana.

“Hit her!” she hisses as quietly as she can.

The massive roegadyn raises his good hand and brings it down quickly into Cirana’s face, pulling his wrist at the final moment, leaving her with little more than a light tap on the cheek.

“Oh no! It hurts so very much!” she declares, loudly, doing her best to fall down believably.

“Don’t actually hit her that hard, man, what is wrong with you!?” Kiria whispers angrily at the large man.

“I didn’t!” he hisses back.

Ciriana looks up at her Captain and winks, though having only one eye, it’s indistinguishable from a blink.

Kiria quickly wipes the concern off of her face and looks around for another high ranking official to bully.

“My lady,” a well dressed man arrives before them, slightly out of breath having clearly run down here the moment he had witnessed Nero’s dismissal, “I will take you to see the Legatus in the Tribunus’ stead.”

“Very well, lead the way.”

“Take the prisoner to holding cell 1-C.” The man orders a number of approaching guards.

“Did I order you to take my prisoner?” Words colder than an Ilsabardian winter fall, seemingly adding weight to the man’s shoulders by the way they begin to slump.

The man begins to sweat profusely and the guards very quickly look like they wish they were anywhere else.

“M-My lady, I thought…”

“I ordered you to lead me to your Legatus.”

The man shuts his mouth and gestures the guards away before starting to walk.

Haermhimal follows along, finally finding a comfortable way to do his job of saying nothing and looking intimidating as well as he can, leading Ciriana along with them.

They step through long halls filled with Garlean weaponry and rushing soldiers. The view astonishes Ciriana with how intricate and complex the building is. Assaulting this place alone by force would have been tantamount to suicide. Even tied up in the heart of the enemy’s lair, she feels nonetheless safe with her friends at her side.

“Words cannot express my surprise upon hearing of your arrival.” A familiar voice is heard as a door before them opens and the Black Wolf himself steps into the hallway to greet them.

“Fetch me some water.” Kiria pushes their guide out of the way.

“Gaius van Baelsar.” she greets the Legatus with a curt nod.

“Karasvi tol Sanvis, I express sincerest gratitude for your...gift.” he looks at Ciriana harshly, even through his mask, his glare is piercing. 

“It seems your battle was rather climactic.” he gestures at the massive gash in Kiria’s armour that had been formed in the process of Ciriana cutting the previous owner’s heart out. With luck, he wouldn’t notice the matching hole in the back that would look a little suspicious on account of Kiria’s lack of injury.

“Garlean steel is not perfect,” Kiria replies, “But the weapons of savages are not sufficient to injure one of true Garlean blood. I am unharmed.”

“I see. It seems your reputation of military mastery is no exaggeration after all.” he says, though Ciriana can’t help but feel doubt in his words.

He turns back to the Xaela, stepping in close and looking down at her from what must be at least two heads taller than her.

“Even defeated and at the mercy of your enemies, you stand with confidence, Warrior of Light.” he says, “It would seem Eorzea chose her champion well.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Ciriana disagrees, trying to play her part properly, “Otherwise she uh, wouldn’t have chosen someone who’d get beat up so easily by her ladyfulness here.”

“You seem remarkably intact for having emerged alive from combat with a Tribunus famed for her brutality.”

Kiria assumes the pose that so easily cowed Nero and glares at Gaius as if he were insulting her.

“I did not imagine the Black Wolf to be possessed of the habit of questioning the methods of other officers?”

The white mask turns to her for a moment, but the man is not so easily cowed.

“Forgive my concerns, Tribunus,” he says, “But your appearance here at this time is unexpected, and these Scions of the Seventh Dawn have proven themselves a...resourceful pest. It is only in the name of caution that I suspect a plot afoot.”

“Oh? You would doubt  _ my _ results over the lack of efficacy of your own methods?” she challenges him insultingly.

“I did not think you such a petty woman, Karasvi.” he snaps back at her, taking her aback a little.

Ciriana wonders how good Kiria’s impression of this Karasvi person is. They are at least a relative of hers, if she has done so well at impersonating her already. Hopefully her skills would be sufficient for them to get to the Weapon.

Gaius turns back to her with a cold rage that doesn’t show in his voice but burns all the same in his gaze.

“I hear Rhitahtyn chose to stop you himself at Cape Westwind.” the Black Wolf’s mask stares daggers deep into Ciriana’s heart, “How did he die?”

Ciriana opens her mouth, unsure of what to say. That massive man in armour had been a part of his crew. She didn’t like the Garleans, she didn’t like the XIVth Legion storming into their home, claiming to establish their stifling order upon all. And yet this man had lost someone in his crew. That is a feeling Ciriana herself can empathize with. Is there anything she can possibly say to make it easier on him? Or does she not have that right, being the one who had ended the man’s life with her own hands?

“You were the last thing on his mind, sir.” she says, with genuine sympathy, “The last name on his lips.”

“I see.” is all he answers with, his face unreadable through his mask. “...You remind me of a number of children who call me Father.” 

His tone is unreadable. Is it sorrow? Ciriana stares at him blankly, her eye slightly wide. Those words were likely the last she would expect coming from his mouth. Why would he say something like that?

He turns back to Kiria, without a trace of that strange emotion in his voice

“Where is my Tribunus,” he demands, “He was the one who was to escort you here.”

“That lowborn cur? Your lieutenant?” Kiria scoffs, arrogantly, “He is attending to my ship.”

“Need I remind you that you are present as an uninvited guest in  _ my _ fortress, interfering with  _ my _ operation.,” he rebukes her, his smouldering anger giving the impression of an antagonized wolf prepared to pounce, “Rank here is bestowed upon merit and merit alone and your noble prejudices have no place in  _ my  _ Legion.”

“You will give my soldiers the respect they deserve, or you  _ will  _ leave.” he takes a few steps away to a nearby console and opens a communication line.

“Where are you Nero?” he demands, his mood clearly soured by Kiria’s behaviour, “How are the preparations for the Ultima Weapon going?”

“Put that teapot down, what for the Emperor’s sake are you doing!?” Nero’s irate voice comes through, “How is that even working!? How did this pile of trash not explode, much less  _ fly _ ?”

“Nero!” Gaius’ voice demands his attention.

“Yes, yes, everything is perfectly fine with the Weapon, the power transfer is going smoothly...don’t even have to watch it...did you seriously just use a  _ sock _ to hold this together, man?”

“Leave whatever nonsense you’re doing and get back to your post. I will not suffer any further setbacks to the Ultima operation!”

“In a moment, Legatus,” the man replies, “This entire engine room is either a miracle of science or a portal to another dimension where reason and logic hold no sway, I’ve  _ almost _ figured out how it...How long have you been using  _ that _ as a coaster!?”

The Legatus seems to have trouble tearing his engineer from the Waltz’s engine for some reason. Perhaps Simonaud had seduced him. Or maybe the genius of the once ex Ishgardian engineer has so thoroughly impressed the Garlean, he seeks to learn from him..

  
Haermhimal takes the chance to check in with his Captain.

“Do you have any idea what you’re doing!?” the Roegadyn hisses at her with a panicked look in his eyes, only visible from Ciriana’s angle.

The man is really not one for these adventures in subtlety. A pirate since birth, he solved problems with cutlass and musket. The most intelligence work he has likely ever participated in is probably asking a few pointed questions while stabbing someone. There were distinct advantages when getting favours from people who had your blade in between their ribs, as opposed to their current predicament. The pressure of the lie seems to be getting to him.

“Relax,” Kiria replies in a whisper, “It’s ok, if bossing him around doesn’t work, I’ve still got my own secret weapon for the next step.”

“If you say what I think you’re going to say, I swear by the Twelve I am going to-”

“Just stand there quietly, and I’ll get us up to the weapon.” she tells her First Mate, “Once you see a good opportunity, cut her loose.”

“Your water, my lady…” the guide man comes back with a small pitcher and a glass.

“Excellent.” she answers, taking the pitcher from the tray.

“Time for my secret weapon…” she mutters confidently.

As Gaius turns back from his call, Kiria wastes no time at pulling the large horned helmet off her head and letting her shoulder-length golden locks spill out from underneath. She shakes her head slowly, dismissing any tangles the helmet had wrought of her hair. 

She unclasps the latches on the armour and removes it as well, carefully angling any signs of fatal damage on it away from observing eyes before handing the chest piece to Haermhimal.

Striking a pose to display her athletic body to the Black Wolf, she takes the pitcher of water instead of the cup and slowly pours it onto her own head and face, letting the rivulets crawl along her skin and soak into her tanktop.

She lets out a long sigh bordering on the erotic, all the while never taking her eyes away from the Black Wolf. The servant at the side clears his throat and looks away.

“Draw me a bath in my quarters.” she says, dismissing the man upon returning the pitcher, “It has been  _ such _ a long day.”

Ciriana can’t see him do anything, but she can hear Haermhimal planting a palm in his face in his mind.

This is the Captain’s greatest trump card, apparently. The art of seduction.

The tall Garlean beauty before them looks at Gaius van Baelsar with a sultry demeanour, putting her hands on her hips and showing off her perfectly sculpted bronze goddess’ body.

Ciriana can’t see any reaction from the part of the Black Wolf, but he could be staring as much as she is behind that unreadable mask. Or maybe it’s disgust or confusion. How did Garleans communicate with all this love of masks?

More importantly he doesn’t seem to show any signs of suspecting her identity, even unmasked.

“So, Gaius,” she says, her lips enjoying every syllable, “I hear you’ve acquired a new toy.”

“I don’t remember informing the Twelfth of our projects in Eorzea.” he says curtly.

“A girl has her way of finding out secrets.” she answers with a hint of a giggle.

“Well, I was about to show you the fruit of the XIVth’s labours regardless.” Gaius says, turning away and hitting a switch on a nearby console, “I believe your word of the power the XIVth has claimed in the name of the Emperor will carry much weight in many a circle within Garlemald.”

“Oh.” Kiria seems slightly disappointed at his lack of response to her seductive techniques. He didn’t offer a single compliment, and so far he just  _ ignored _ her feminine wiles. Maybe he is trying to be respectful to a powerful political force. Or whatever this Karasvi is.

“The battle’s tide is in our favour at the moment, and our final move shall seal their fate here.” he says with confidence, “Eorzea  _ will _ capitulate in its entirety to Garlean rule ere the end of the season. I guarantee it.”

“So soon?” Kiria asks with an arched eyebrow, still doing her best to appear seductive, “You expect to exceed your already perfect performance at Ala Mhigo, then.”

“Few lands are in as desperate a need of a strong guiding force as Eorzea.” he replies as he leads them towards a large freight elevator, “With the threat of the primal worshipping beast tribes, any moment saved by a change of methods is worth its weight in blood.”

He hits a few buttons on the console and the structure begins to descend.

“Your mother’s exploits in the battlefields of Dalmasca are the standard all Legati should look up to. Her creative use of ancient Allagan weaponry inspired my decision to the same, and not to the extreme lengths Nael van Darnus went to.”

“I admit there were certain...setbacks…” he looks at Ciriana with a critical eye, “But our preparations are complete and our objective at hand.”

He turns to address the Warrior of Light directly.

“You will bear witness to the full power of the Ultima Weapon.” he decrees, “While you may think it is the age of heroes defending the innocent from the primal plague, I expect you will think differently when the Ultima Weapon shreds the summoned eikons before their very worshippers. Perhaps then, you may yet convince the Alliance to end the need for further bloodshed.”

Ciriana glares at the man and opens her mouth to argue, but Kiria speaks first.

“Merciful, aren’t you?” she asks, “Many in Ilsabard showed no protest to Nael’s methods, deranged as the girl may have been after her brother’s death.”

“It is the duty of the strong to guide and protect the weak by maintaining order.” he replies simply, “I do not shed the blood of innocents carelessly.”

“Well, I’m looking forward to seeing this new Allagan weapon of yours. I do hope the destruction it brings about is as wondrous as you describe.”

The Black Wolf stands silent for a moment, with only the rumbling of the elevator to fill the silence, but he soon breaks the ice himself.

“I heard a strange story not a season past.” Gaius speaks, bringing up a new subject, “About the Dreadnought Virencin in the skies of Abalathia’s Spine.”

Haermhimal begins to sweat visibly.

“Apparently they were attacked by a number of Sky Pirates ships numbering in the dozens, and nearly lost the ship, but did succeed in driving them off.”

Ciriana smirks. The Garleans were probably too embarrassed to specify that there had only been one Sky Pirate ship, and that their entire military might had been brought to its knees by just two people.

Gaius van Baelsar continues his curious story, “An eyewitness account tells of a Garlean woman present at the scene with your spitting image…”

Haermhimal lets out a panicked cry and throws his arms up in despair.

“I knew it!” he yells, “Of course he figured it out, you idiot Captain! Your acting skills are shite, your plan is shite, and now we’re all going to die!”

Stunned, Gaius takes a step back, clearly confused by the outburst.

“What is the meaning of this?” he demands, quickly putting his hand to his gunblade.

The large roegadyn pauses, as Kiria looks at him with a tired expression.

“It was totally working, you big idiot.” she admonishes her First Mate, “He was going to tell me about  _ me  _ because he’s a good chap who thinks Karasvi would care about me being kidnapped by Sky Pirates, now if you would let me continue…”

She turns back to Gaius.

“Oh my, you’ve heard word of my dear sister!?” she exclaims, doing her best to act the part of a surprised sister, “Having shared a womb with her, we are like two parts of a whole and I am just so glad that you’ve brought me news of her well- oh, it’s too late for that isn’t it.”

She turns and ducks behind the elevator console just in time to avoid a ceruleum bullet flying mere ilms past her head.

“Cut her loose!” she yells, as she draws her snapchance and fires a few rounds in the Black Wolf’s general direction.

Without a moment of hesitation, the Garlean Legatus simply deflects her bullets with a sweep of his blade while he lunges for Ciriana faster than the eyes of any layperson can track.

Haermhimal fumbles with a knife and raises his hook to cut Ciriana’s binds, but she can tell already that he’s too late. The Legatus’ gunblade will cleave right through him and into her at this rate.

Hands still bound, she takes two quick steps forward past the First Mate’s fumbling grasp and catches the weapon with her bare hands, holding it still with all her might with her palms on either edge of the blade.

“You traitors will die here!” the man growls, struggling to force his blade downwards out of the Xaela’s grip. She slides her wrists forward a little, using the man’s own blade to free her hands from their shackles.

“FLAME SHALL ENGULF ALL AND RENDER THE WORLD UNTO ASH!”

Haermhimal unleashes his greatest weapon by ripping open the head of the sack on his back and holding the small Hyur girl forward like a cannon.

Whitehot flames spew out of her hands as she cackles gleefully, forcing the Garlean general to retreat.

“Hold him here!” Kiria orders, “We’ll go claim the Weapon!”

Brynhilde laughs some more as she launches fireballs from her hands after the Garlean General, who is forced on the defensive in the confined spaces of the elevator.

“Blade!” Haermhimal calls as he tosses Ciriana’s katana into the air. She catches it and turns to face van Baelsar.

Brynhilde lets out a pant as the fireballs stop flying out.

“I’m out of mana.” she says flatly and steps back to fish the restorative potions out of the bag she was riding in.

“Nothing changes!” van Baelsar roars, “I will kill you all here, and I will unite Eorzea and end the Primal menace once and for all!”

Ciriana draws her sword and swings it around in a flourish, showcasing a fraction of the speed of her blade before holding the blade alongside her head in an aggressive stance. 

So far her role in this operation has been a little too passive for her tastes. It feels good to have a blade in her hand once more. She can feel her excitement growing at the prospect of crossing blades with the Black Wolf, and a smile begins to rise unbidden to her lips.

“I am the Seventh Song of the Wind,” she announces to her duel opponent, holding her blade with all the conviction of the one with the fate of continent on her shoulders, “The Ballad of Blades, Ciriana Haragin. You will not walk out of here alive!”

Her legs carry her forward unhesitatingly and in a blink of an eye, the distance between her and the Black Wolf is narrowed to mere ilms.

As their blades trade blows, Ciriana’s mind reaches its perfect balance of enjoyment and focus, and her face takes on a brilliant smile of a performer putting on the greatest show of their life.

This is what she was made for. In the heat of battle, every moment of her life spent swinging blades is put to the test. Her relentlessly trained body, her endlessly honed techniques, her consistently cared for blade. All of her being is met with another such perfectly crafted living weapon. She cannot help but grin ear to ear.

Her blade weaves through the mire of Garlean fire and steel, her every movement perfected over years of repetition, her every decision bringing her a single step closer to victory. Blade and scabbard both become instruments of death in her hands, transforming into deadly lightning bolts arc’ing out from her body to any weak point they can find in van Baelsar’s defenses. Any step he takes in retreat is matched with an advance of her own. Any attempt at a counterattack is deflected or avoided and returned with one of her own.

His gunblade swings about expertly, unleashing ceruleum explosions to put his opponent off balance, every one of his heavy swings a death sentence if unmitigated or unavoided.

Ciriana’s unrelenting offense keeps him from finding his opportunity to unleash her death, but even in retreat, his every move is perfectly calculating, giving as little as possible and taking all he can, all the while preparing to leap upon the moment an opening is shown.

Gaius van Baelsar is truly the opponent of a lifetime. All doubts and questions are dispelled from Ciriana’s mind as their deadly dance consumes her entire being. As much as she is enjoying the battle, her excitement only grows at the thought of standing before his defeated body.

In the midst of the flurry of violence, Ciriana takes one single step back, opening a single pause in her offense. Her blade is quickly sheathed in its scabbard at her side, and her body is as poised as a coiled snake, ready to unleash a final ending strike.

Taking the bait, with the confidence he would overwhelm whatever strike she might deliver, Gaius takes the opportunity to step forward and swing an ending blow with more speed and force than any attack before it.

But he is too slow. He underestimates the Iaijutsu he has never seen. He will not deliver this blow unscathed. Perhaps Ciriana might not escape unharmed as well. The battlefield is a gamble, after all, and Ciriana bets it all on this very moment.

“FROM THE BLUE SKIES RAINS FIERY DEATH THAT WILL RAVAGE THE GREEN AND DYE THE LAND BLACK”

Ciriana smile grows uncomfortably wide as five cabbage-sized fireballs pass over her head. Four of them seal off any chance of him altering his momentum, while the fifth strikes him directly in the chest, unable to puncture tempered Garlean steel, but sufficiently impactful to transform a moment of uncertainty into an overwhelming victory for the Warrior of Light.

Her ice-like stillness evaporates in a single moment, and steam seems to rise from her skin as all the tension in her body is unleashed like the snap of a bow. Every muscle in her body is pushed to its utmost limit for a single instant. With practiced perfection, a series of strikes cut into the Legatus’ armour, tearing through armour and flesh with no more difficulty than slicing paper.

With a pained roar, the Black Wolf is launched back by the force of the strike, thrown off the edge of the elevator and vanishes into the darkness.

Breathing out, Ciriana slowly sheathes her blade with practiced form.

“Ugh, I hate drinking these…” Brynhilde mumbles, spitting out the blue liquid that supplied her extra aetheric abilities.

Ciriana takes a deep breath and lets it out, and enjoys her rapid heartbeat, basking in the cathartic afterglow of combat. The manic expression in her face slowly dies out and her muscles return to their relaxed but ready state. Nothing feels quite as good as such a perfectly executed battle.

“Ha! Take that you Garlean scum!” Kiria shouts down the elevator, “That’ll teach you to mess with the Songs of the Wind!”

Ciriana arches an eyebrow at the Captain and First Mate.

  
“Weren’t you two going down ahead of us to secure the Weapon?” she asks.

“We’re on an elevator, how are we supposed to go down any faster than this?” Haermhimal asks.

“It sounded cool when I was saying it,” Kiria shrugs, “I just got caught up in the moment.”

Ciriana eyes the void of darkness suspiciously, “He’s dead, right?”

“You got him pretty good, girl,” the First Mate nods sagely, patting Brynhilde’s back and lifting her into his arms as she starts spitting out the blue potions she was chugging. “He’s definitely dead after a fall like that.”

Kiria puts a hand on her face and starts chuckling.

“Hehehehehe…” she begins, before erupting into raucous laughter.

  
“MWAHHAHAHAHAAHAAA!” she cackles, “We are but moments away from our prize! Famed shall we be across all the Great Continents!”

She dramatically holds her hands up as if accepting the accolades she envisions them getting.

“The Songs of the Wind! Stole their way into Garlemald’s most precious fortress, had their very enemy repair their ship, seduced the secrets of their greatest weapon from their Legatus and made off with their prize, all in a single night!”

The elevator slows to a stop, in an open warehouse-like space. Two bright red orbs glow in the darkness before them.

“You know you didn’t actually seduce me in the slightest, right?” a pained, but unfortunately recently familiar voice echoes throughout the large chamber.

The lights turn on, and a massive four legged almost organic-seeming machine takes a step forward out of the darkness to loom over them, its eyes glowing red.

“Ya know,” Ciriana says, nodding to herself, “I think I was right. This ain’t gonna fit in the cargo hold.”

“Well shite.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe Gaius was seduced a little. He didn’t really know the Sanvis family personally all that much, and it’s hard to recognize people under all that armour. Karasvi does have a reputation for beauty though.  
> Nero is definitely infatuated with the Waltz’s engine, since it really shouldn’t be working. So far the theory is that through sufficient confusion, the world’s laws simply gave up on Simonaud’s engine room and just gave them a free pass.


	4. Stolen coda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A heist complete, the Songs wind down in a short coda.

The battle at Castrum Meridianum in some ways evoked memories of the Plains of Carteneau. However while flying over the aftermath of that hellscape had certainly been a sobering and solemn experience, the personal grief that afflicts Kiria’s heart makes the tail end of Operation Archon a much harsher experience.

“Don’t worry Cap’n,” Ciriana rubs her back gently with a word of comfort, “At least we’re still gettin’ paid by the Scions.”

“Well, we still got some savings from what Ciri made over the past couple months on top of that last Ishgard job,” W’sidra says pragmatically, “Ain’t like we’re about to starve just from one or two failed heists, yeah?”

Even Haermhimal has a weak attempt at cheering up their Captain.

“Well we ain’t dead, so I’d say today’s a massive success.”

Kiria lets out a long sigh and buries her face into her arms.

She had it all planned out so perfectly, she had picked out a name and a colour. She had been in the process of planning where to find more crew when the Heart of Sabik overloaded and her dreams along with the Ultima Weapon exploded into a thousand shards of scrap metal.

“You don’t think they’ve got another one lying about somewhere right?” she asks, lamenting the loss of what would have been the centerpiece of her planned sky pirate fortress.

The Symphony of Gales, she would have called it, the sky fortress she had dreamed of ever since her childhood. A nation above all other nations, literally, that would float about freely across the world, visiting all manner of lands. She would have hundreds of crewmates, all of them as adorable as possible, obviously. They would fly out every day, taste all the food of all the world, plunder all they desired and laugh the whole way back to their home in the skies.

Without a nice shortcut like the Ultima weapon, she’d have to go back to relying on her measly savings, which is a significantly less fun way to achieve her dreams.

“Even if the Black Wolf didn’t think you were that pretty, I did.” Ciriana says, still trying to comfort her boss, “Maybe he just don’t swing that way. Or maybe he’s married. He did say he had some kids, didn’t he?”

“I’m sure he were just embarrassed to be in front of a pretty lady. That was definitely why he let us go down so far.”

Kiria looks up from her moping.

“Oh there’s no doubt about that.” she says dismissively, “Of course he was enraptured by this paragon of beauty, you should have  _ seen _ how many parties my sister and I were invited to back in Garlemald.”

“I didn’t know you were Garlean nobility, though.” Brynhilde sits down in an unnervingly calm manner, sipping on a cup of hot cocoa to get the taste of mana potions out of her mouth.

The chance to set things on fire usually calmed her down a fair bit for a few hours.

W’sidra guffaws at the comment, “She don’t know the story of our Cap’n here.”

Kiria sighs, “I suppose you two little ones are less familiar with my past than the others...”

Ciriana looks at her excitedly, “Were you a big general in Garlemald? One of ‘em Ligaments or whatnot?”

“Not in the slightest. There isn’t much to tell.” she replies with a shrug, “My name is Kiria dus Sanvis, while my twin sister is Karasvi tol Sanvis. The name in the middle denotes a rank of sorts in Garlean culture.”

“Karasvi tol Sanvis is one of the most brutal warriors in the Twelfth Legion.” Haermhimal explains, “This one was a shipping clerk in the Fourteenth.”

“You acted the part surprisingly well, though.” Brynhilde notes.

“My ancestors are like many pureblooded Garleans. They live, breathe, birth and raise children for the sake of the military. I naturally received the appropriate education. Even so, I am likely the main family’s greatest failure, while Karasvi is the greatest success since my great grandfather.”

Kiria grins with maliciousness.

“I’m quite grateful for her career’s success, though. impersonating a Tribunus is so easy when the family pretends I don’t even exist. It has made evading the Garleans after a heist so, so very easy at times back when we still operated in Ilsabard. I can’t imagine what it’s done to her reputation.”

Kiria giggles like a child at the very thought of causing her sister to be asked why she was spotted in Eorzea attempting to seduce the Black Wolf. It’s a shame most witnesses to the events of this night are probably dead. With luck, someone might send a report back to complain about Karasvi’s alleged promiscuous behaviour.

The straight laced sibling would be more mortified than that time Kiria stepped on a noblewoman’s dress and blamed it on her sister.

“Well!” Kiria stands up, her energy renewed, “Our ship is now in fine form, our Blade has returned home after a lengthy sabbatical and complete and utter chaos has been sown throughout Eorzea with the complete and utter defeat of the XIVth Legion by the hands of the Songs of the Wind!”

She lets out a hearty laugh and holds her hand skywards.

“Whatever minor setbacks we’ve had are in the past now! The sky is the limit! We are once again free to plunder and pillage to our heart’s content!”

The crew crowded in the cockpit let out an exuberant cheer that warms Kiria’s heart far more than any words they might have for her.

“At last!” a triumphant cry comes from far behind them in the engine room.

They turn to see Simonaud slowly stepping out of the engine room, and behind him, is a tall Garlean man with yellow hair, pumping his fists into the air.

“You would  _ never _ have been able to puzzle through that quagmire of insanity, Garlond!” he shouts to some unseen rival, “Only I, Nero tol Scaeva have unravelled the nightmares in this room!”

“I can’t say I like what you’ve done to my work,” Simonaud disagrees with him, “I was fairly certain-”

“Not another word from you, you brilliant idiot!” Nero shouts at him, “I can’t tell if you’re a self-taught genius, a being from another dimension or the luckiest moron ever to grace this star but I will carve your eyes out with a spoon if I  _ ever _ see you using power relay as a biscuit warmer ever again.”

“In all fairness, it’s already getting hot, I might as well put that heat-”

“Never. Again.” he glares right into Simonaud’s eyes.

Kiria opens her mouth to say something, but can’t find anything to interrupt with as the man continues to lecture Simonaud on the finer points of engineering.

“Knew we forgot something…” Haermhimal mutters.

“Huh, I was gonna say the Waltz’ been flying much smoother than normal.” W’sidra comments.

“It smells a lot less like explosions today too.” Brynhilde sniffs at the air.

“Do ya think he’ll wanna join up, Cap’n?” Ciriana asks innocently, “He was in charge of the Ultima Weapon and whatnot. Maybe we can build another one.”

The yellow haired Garlean pauses in his tirade and slowly looks up the hall to the handful of eyes staring at him from the cockpit.

“Ciriana Haragin!” he shouts with surprise, “Fetch me my hammer, soldier, the Warrior of Light thinks to escape on this ship!”

“His head’s nothing but engineering, isn’t it?” Kiria asks as Simonaud delivers the man’s weapon to him.

“I don’t think he noticed us taking off.” Brynhildr points out calmly, before her face starts to contort “Or the lovely, lovely explosion that engulfed the Praetorium in a maelstrom of brilliant conflagration, a neverending inferno that will GROW and PROSPER and BURN UNTIL ALL IS NAUGHT BUT A BLACKENED MEMORY OF THE SINS OF EXISTENCE PERPETUATED BY-”

Haermhimal stuffs a cookie into the girl’s mouth and lumbers forward to engage their accidental passenger.

“We can’t kill him after he fixed up the Waltz so good, can we?” Ciriana asks, her eye looking at Kiria like a child asking to keep a puppy.

With a sigh Kiria stands up and pulls Haermhimal aside.

“My most gracious thanks for your help with our engineering troubles, my good sir.” she says with a bow, “Unfortunately it appears you have been duped by the Songs of the Wind once again, for we are Sky Pirates extraordinaire and enemies of Garlemald.”

“What is this nonsense!?” The man exclaims in confusion. Nevertheless, his eyes lock in on the Warrior of Light sitting comfortably near the helm of a Garlean ship, and it seems that is sufficient for them to be his enemies.

He begins rushing forward down the hall, his massive magitek hammer ready to tear the ship and his enemies apart.

“Roll her, W’sidra!” Kiria orders as she slams her fist against a button by the door.

“With pleasure!” Gravity shifts sideways as the crew of experienced skyworthy pirates immediately latch onto anything nailed down they can grab.

A door opens to the elements, and a cold wind rushes in, and the one unsecured person on the ship tumbles out without so much as a by your leave.

The ship completes its roll, leaving a few of them queasy, and Kiria shuts the door immediately after.

“He’s probably going to be alright.” she says estimating their altitude from the window, “Garleans are a sturdy type.”

Ciriana seems slightly relieved, despite the fact that the man seemed intent on killing her. Then again, considering how she had completely and utterly trashed the Black Wolf as well as the Ultima Weapon with a single sword, maybe the attacks of mere mortals on her person did not mean quite the same thing as it would to others.

“Alright, W’sidra, now that that’s all taken care of…”

Kiria pumps her fist into the air once more.

“To freedom and the great blue skies!” the Songs of the Wind shout altogether, beginning a new verse in their neverending melody.   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few loose ends wrapped up. Poor Nero is not going to be happy about the events at the Praetorium, but he has never really be one who cared much for king and country.  
> He just might re-encounter the Songs of the Wind someday, I wonder if Simonaud actually learned a thing or two from him.


	5. Crystalline Prelude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a short escapade away from their tribulations at the Crystal Tower, the Songs of the Wind look to win some expedition funds at the Gold Saucer.

The Gold Saucer is a strange establishment to find in the endless deserts of Ul’dah, the massive Cactuar shaped construction must appear quite ridiculous to any who might wander past it without knowing what they were seeing.

Within the hallowed halls of the Manderville Gold Saucer, however, is a land of intrigue and plots. As innocent as a world of games and prizes and colourful mascots may be, where there is money to be made, the shadowy underbelly of the nature of people rears its ugly head.

And within the darkest of arenas, underneath the glitz and glamour of childlike fun, they can be found. Only in a brutal, violent battle to the death, can the Song of the Wind can be witnessed.

“Take this!” the W’sidra shouts with delight, “With my final primal card, the set is complete! Feel the wrath of a fully upgraded Titan!”

A number of cards are flipped on the table as the board is dyed primarily red. Red, the colour of W’sidra’s victory. Red, the colour of her victims’ blood.

The Miqo’te laughs brilliantly as the battlefield twists into her favour.

Curses and cheers are loosed from the crowd surrounding their table. A number of coins are changed between hands.

“Blasted hells!” her rust-haired opponent swears as his metaphorical fortress is brought down by an imaginary gigantic earth aspected primal.

“A talented novice you may be, G’raha Tia,” W’sidra taunts the scholar with a haughty voice, “But you’re facin’ off with the nine times Gold Saucer Gran Prix Champion! You’re a thousand years too early to think you can take  _ my _ cards! ”

“Ain’t the Gran Prix a Chocobo racing competition?” Ciriana asks innocently from the other side of the table.

“Shut it, Ciri.” W’sidra hisses at her crewmate, “I’m busy teachin’ yer friend some respect!”

The arena is simple and without embellishment, unlike those aboveground in the real Gold Saucer. However within this fenced off cage lie the profits that can be made significantly more real than the toy money the Manderville establishment leaves people to play with.

W’sidra had feels a little sorry for the Sharlayan scholar, who is still likely convinced that this is in fact the real Gold Saucer and that this tournament is a perfectly legitimate Manderville sanctioned event.

W’sidra isn’t sure whether Ciriana’s intention is to harass the upstanding Student of Baldesion or whether she genuinely thinks that this is the way to cheer him up after the literal stone walls they had run into at the Crystal Tower. Knowing the purehearted, if not intelligent, Warrior of Light, she probably thinks the latter.

And now here he is, encaged within an arena most often used for deathmatches or the occasional mafia execution, face to face with a seasoned professional Triple Triad player.

She wonders whether he has the faintest idea about what happens to the people upon whom bets are placed and lost.

“Not so smart after all, ya scholarly idiot!” 

“You take your big words and head on back home to ya books, ya tart!”

“What in all hells iz that eddication o’ youse for? Ya cost me a hunnid’ gil, boy!”

“Told ya she gonna full sweep ‘im and kick ‘im out in the first round!”

Jeers and complaints come from the peanut gallery and a few handy leftover pieces of some spectators’ lunches are tossed into the arena in frustration, much to the dismay of the competition staff.

“Well, I never…” G’raha mutters as he grows increasingly stressed in appraising his cards, “How is she able to do that?”

“Them rules is Ascension.” Ciriana explains from her perch on the fence behind her friend, “W’sidra got the full primal deck, so every card she got makes ‘em all stronger.”

“He don’t even know the rules!”

“How’s an idiot gettin’ this high up to the quarterfinals?”

“W’sidra you sly bitch imma snap your neck after this if you don’t win this here tourney!”

G’raha Tia shakes his head in dismay, “I suppose blind luck can only carry one so far in the face of one of such masterful skill as W’sidra.”

He lowers his cards, prepared to forfeit the match.

W’sidra’s chest puffs up with pride, “Ha! And ya called it a children’s game before! Now ya see the difference ‘atween-”

“The other rule for this match is Plus.” Ciriana says, her voice barely audible over the raucous complaints, “If’n you add up the numbers what’s pointin’ at each other you can win lots o’ fights if they the same.”

“If I add up the…” the Miqo’te scholar passes a few fingers through his hair as he raises his cards once more, quickly looking between his cards and the deck.

“Those are increased in power by one for every other primal card on the field and thusly one must conclude that…”

W’sidra pales considerably as she sees the cogs clicking in her opponent’s head.

“Damn it Ciri, is this how you repay me for teaching you how to play!?” she curses at her friend.

She looks back to G’raha’s eyes, with a desperate hope that he might not have the specific card that might overturn her most beautiful victory.

“Your fatal flaw, my friend, is apparent now that our journey has brought us into this final endgame!” The boisterous man declares grandiosely, matching the way she had taunted him previously, “Of course, it would only be polite to offer you a chance to withdraw and hide your shame beneath assumed magnanimity.”

Ciriana giggles from her vantage point, which is slightly hurtful to the Pilot. She would cheer for this boy she had met not a month ago over her very own life coach and mentor. The Pilot makes a mental note reminding her not to share her lunch with the girl ever again.

W’sidra scans the board with a skillful eye and then shakes her head, her confidence returning.

“I’m callin’ your bluff, it’s all just theatrics.” she says flatly, “Ya got nothin’.”

“Well, if I were to win, of course, I would need to have a card with two sides where in the difference between them would have to be nine, and it is obvious that no such card exists, when my one and only five star card has already been placed on this board, and unfortunately captured by a powerful multi-pronged primal attack.”

“Exactly, so why should I-”

“However!” he holds a hand up. Finally noticing that something dramatic is going on, the crowd begins to quiet down, enraptured by the handsome Miqo’te’s prose, “It just so happens that there exists but one single card that can single handedly narrow these odds that overwhelmed my defenses so easily!”

  
“Wait, ya can’t mean…”

“But of course!” G’raha spreads his arms out flamboyantly, as he stands, holding a single card in his hand.

“Lurking withIn your deck filled with primal cards, you also carried a single Scion of the Seventh Dawn! And it is that card that shall now be your undoing!”

“But even if ya got a Scion in your deck, there ain’t a card in existence that has-”

“After the battle of Operation Archon,” he says, the audience leaning forward with every word, “It seems a brand  _ new _ card graced the decks of a precious few lucky people…”

“This is ridiculous!” W’sidra counters, “You’re playin’ with Ciri’s deck and she ain’t much of a proper collector. She got nothin’ but weak ass pathetic shite cards!”

“My friend’s deck has no pathetic cards, W’sidra!” G’raha retorts, his face dripping with triumph before he has even played his final move, “But it does contain the one card that Ciriana Haragin of all people would receive from Godbert Manderville himself!”

With every word, W’sidra’s face loses more and more of its composure as it dawns upon her what is about to happen. It is too late to forfeit the round now. She quickly looks to the board, tracing the trail of Plus Combos, desperately seeking for even one remaining bastion of red, protecting her from the full sweep and immediate loss. She can easily win a best of five, but a full sweep would end any such dreams of redemption.

“Aaah!” W’sidra exclaims fearfully, as her sealed fate dawns upon her, “Impossible!”

“Behold! The final piece of the puzzle is formed!” the Student of Baldesion, caught up in the moment roars triumphantly, “Between your unstoppable Titan and your powerful Minfilia card, I place the Warrior of Light Card! With the rules of Ascension, Minfilia’s power grows by one and with that, the gap is finally breached!”

“PLUS COUNTER!” the crowd shouts, enraptured by the charismatic duelist before them.

A sea of blue washes over the board, wiping clean every last trace of the victorious red, and with it, any chance W’sidra has of redeeming her honour.

“Noooooo!” she cries out, as Ciriana’s face looks at her elegantly from the board, “How could ya betray me like this Ciri!”

“Full sweep!” The announcer shouts, “Winner is the Student of Baldesion who moves on to the Semifinals to play against the Canon of Skysteel! The Gust’s Chorus is eliminated!”

The room erupts in shouting, laughter and a few punches as the turnaround of a century reverses the fortunes of just about everyone in the shady room. A small stampede occurs around the betting office as everyone rushes to triple or quadruple their bets on the fabled Student of Baldesion.

W’sidra lets her face fall to the table before her, “Were all my Chocobo Grand Prix titles nothing but flukes…?” she mutters to herself dejectedly.

“Don’t forget the plan!” Ciriana whispers to her from above, but the defeated Miqo’te has no words or attention to give a filthy traitor.

Even after all these years spent sailing the skies with the Songs of the Wind, surely W’sidra’s skills haven’t dulled yet? She used to be the Saucer Queen, holding every top score, every record in the entire establishment, this had to be a fluke!

“I want a remaaaatch!” she whines, overwhelmed with dismay.

A moment of guilt is spotted in G’raha’s eyes as he watches the adult woman before him reduce into a mess of mucus and tears.

This moment doesn’t last long before the entire event itself is interrupted.

“Hold up! Nobody move!” A commanding woman’s voice shouts from the entrance. Two massive figures loom at the front door, their faces obscured by the light pouring in from behind them. “You are all now under the custody of the Brass Blades! This gambling ring is illegal and you will all be arrested and any assets seized!”

A moment of silence passes through the room like a gentle breeze before all hell breaks loose.

There’s a second and third exit as well as a number of secret escape routes, and the dozens of attendants and patrons of the underground Triple Triad gambling ring all race each other to escape first.

“Hold still! Evading the law is illegal!” The Blade commander shouts at them and the large Roegadyn behind her begins advancing, swinging a cutlass to and fro, as if in preparation to lop some limbs off.

Obviously, the chaos simply grows with that order as people begin trampling over each other to get themselves ahead of the law.

“Aren’t you supposed to grab the scholar?” Brynhilde’s innocent voice comes from the side. Simonaud is being led about by the hand by the girl half his height, and he seems to be wearing an expression of complete confusion. An expression mirrored by the aforementioned researcher.

“By Louisoix’s ample beard, this is  _ illegal _ !?” G’raha asks, his eyes wide with bewilderment.

“I was told my semifinals match of Triple Triad were to be played here,” Simonaud says, with a questioning voice, “It seems a tad raucous for the occasion, but am I to believe that you are my next opponent?”

“What’s the point!?” W’sidra laments, “He didn’t even know the rules‘ afore today, and I still lost.”

“They’re going to catch on any second now,” Brynhilde reminds her, “We’d best hurry if we don’t want to get lynched.”

The girl hesitates, as a smile begins to creep onto her lips.

“Oh wouldn’t it be grand if they were to set us aflame and roast us within the FINEST of INFERNOS, oh HOW our SKIN will CHAR and PEEL AS THE HEAT ENGULFS OUR VERY ESSENCE.”

Ciriana lands before them, with a large and rather heavy looking suitcase in her hand. The satisfying clinking of coins tells a beautiful story all on its own.

“Ain’t we supposed to be bookin’ it already?” she asks, glancing at the confused friend she brought along.

“Ciriana!” G’raha looks to the Warrior of Light, his eyes filled with concern and despair, “What by the Twelve is going on!? Do you mean to say that this entire tournament was against the laws of Eorzea? Surely the Blades won’t treat us too harshly, we hadn’t the faintest idea, and our Crystal Tower expedition is at stake!”

“Oh it ain’t that bad,” Ciriana tells him comfortingly, “The Blades’ prison got them mouse holes all over, easy ta find loose bricks to spring y’aself loose.”

“PRISON!?” G’raha repeats with shock and ever increasing worry, “What will Rammbroes think? Oh dear, I thought you were taking me to have a relaxing vacation! I can’t go to  _ prison _ !”

Ciriana’s eye seems to widen upon looking at the worried Miqo’te’s face and she turns away, with a hint of colour showing up in her cheeks. 

“Oh, it ain’t nothin’ ta worry about.” she says sheepishly, “I guess we didn’t tell ya the plan. Ya got nothin’ ta worry about. We’s just robbin’ the place is all. Nothin’ proper illegal.”

“Robbing what!?” G’raha Tia looks about ready to faint, if not surrender himself to the authorities.

“W’sidra!” an enraged voice roars from the fleeing crowd. A large highlander wades through the sea of running patrons, “Ya think the same con’ll work on us twice!? You must think me nameday were yesterday!”

W’sidra perks up at the mention of her name. The moment she sees the man approaching them, she bolts to her feet and quickly shoves all her cards back into her bag.

“Oh, we need to be out of here yesterday!” she shouts, “Grab your boy, Ciri! We’re bookin’ it!”

“What are ya all runnin’ from!” The man grabs a guard by the scruff of the neck and pushes him back towards the Songs of the Wind, “That so called Brass Blade’s a goddamn Sea Wolf! Ever seen a Sea Wolf Brass Blade?”

A lantern is tossed before the two shadowy figures at the entrance, the frightening figures there are revealed to be Captain Kiria dus Sanvis and her First Mate Haermhimal.

“By the Twelve what is going-” G’raha begins, before Ciriana seizes his hand in hers.

“Time to run!” she exclaims, as she takes off at lightning speed, nearly dragging along the scholarly Miqo’te with her.

More and more gamblers begin to notice the growing crowd turning against the would be Brass Blades and noting that they weren’t being chased nearly as hard as they thought they were.

“They’re making off with the money!” someone cries, upon spotting a few coins slipping from the suitcase in Ciriana’s hand.

“Oh my, I was certain I was going to win too…I had such wondrous stratagems planned.” Simonaud mutters, but W’sidra grabs his other hand and begins running as well.

“Move them long Elezen legs, ya bastard!” she shouts as she follows Ciriana out.

Haermhimal shakes his head as she passes him, “I told you the same trick wouldn’t work quite as well the second time.”

He scoops Brynhilde up in his arm and slings her over his shoulder.

“Hold them off, will ya, lass?”

“GIL WILL OFFER YOU NO COMPANY IN THE HELLFIRES OF THAL’S HALLS AS THE FLAMES LICK AND LAP AT YOUR FLESH!” 

“Workin’ well enough for me!” Kiria says happily as the two begin running after their crew, flames spurting out behind them.

“Let it be known!” She calls back at the few pursuers who make it past the white hot flames, “The Songs of the Wind have duped you yet again!”

As they run through the service tunnels towards the light of the Ul’dah midday sun, W’sidra can’t help but laugh as they make their getaway. She spotted a number of airships on their way in. The only way this day could possibly get better is if they had good old fashioned airship chase on the way out. That’s how she could redeem her lost honour at the hands of the accursed G’raha Tia. 

“Attention illegal gamblers! You are surrounded! The Brass Blades will show mercy only to those that lay down arms and surrender! There is no way out!”

The moment they step out into the light, they find themselves surrounded indeed, by a number of brown-uniformed armoured men and women, all of them with their weapons trained on them.

“I...don’t suppose these happen to also be fake Brass Blades...are they?” G’raha asks Ciriana, the anxiety in his voice returning, “I do believe we should let them know that we surrender and pray they show us leniency.”

The Warrior of Light giggles a little, and pushes the heavy case into G’raha’s hands.

“You gotta lot ta learn about Sky Pirates,” she says in a friendly voice as she steps forward, a brilliant smile inching its way into her face.

“If you draw your weapon, we will be forced to retaliate!”

“I am the Seventh Song of the Wind.” the girl announces with a clarity and confidence rarely seen in the girl’s speech. She swiftly and clearly ties a rope around the scabbard of her blade, sealing the sword within its sheath. “The Ballad of Blades shall sing without pause until my enemies are nothing but dust! Here I come!”

The ensuing one-sided display of violence leaves ample opportunity for the Songs of the Wind and their guest to make their way back to the Wind’s Waltz and make their perfect getaway.

And the rest of the day is just a chase scene.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, those were all yugioh references.  
> Poor G’raha is not going to be very happy with being an accessory to theft, though to be fair, they were robbing a bunch of criminals. He also lost a bunch of coins when he dropped the loot, so technically they did pay the Brass Blades a little bit of reparations. Who knows, he might come to enjoy it.  
> W'sidra does eventually get her rematch, and the competition is finished in the hallways of the Wind's Waltz. Simonaud turns out to be an excellent Triple Triad player who handily defeats them all except for Brynhilde, who built a deck out of nothing but cards that featured flaming monsters in them.  
> Hopefully they can get to do a little bit of proper relaxation next time in between their expeditions into the Crystal Tower.


	6. Scintillating Rondo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Untold power lies at the top of the Crystal Tower, and yet its gates hold forever shut. Of course there’s always another way in, but it’s not one anyone’s going to like.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nero has convinced Kiria there's some power she can take for her own at the top of the tower, and she's not about to let a stuffy old door slow down her style.  
> And so obviously the solution is to just ignore all of the Tower's defenses and have a much less tedious approach to Syrcus Tower.

“With our utmost, sincerest apologies for deceiving you, we must confess that we are possessed of the Allagan Royal blood and have within us the means to unlock the gate barring our way to the Tower’s interior.”

W’sidra’s sharper ears pick up the terrified woman’s words, but it’s unlikely anyone else can.

“What was that!?” Kiria yells over the vigorous rattling of metal all around them.

W’sidra could likely clarify the Unei’s climactic confession of the true identities of the mysterious arrivals Unei and Doga. It is a choice she makes not to reveal that this suicidal endeavour they are undertaking is unnecessary in the slightest.

The defenses within the tower are probably much stronger than this after all. Why would anyone want to defend the outside of a fancy vainglory monument after all, right?

“Stay out of my engine room, Garlond!” Nero yells at his Garlean friend, “It is hard enough having to keep us from exploding with all this shaking, I can’t put up with a simpleton in here as well!”

“That is beyond fascinating…” Cid Garlond muses out loud, “how is a single misplaced spoon somehow the lynchpin for this entire mockery of modern engineering?”

“Oh, that’s my spoon!” Simonaud exclaims happily, “Oh my great aunt will be pleased that I have not lost her precious heirloom after all!”

“NO! DON’T TOUCH THAT!” The two Garlean engineers protest the Elezen man’s lackadaisical behaviour.

While Cid Garlond had been against this plan from the start, citing danger and the Enterprise’s lack of combat readiness, his tune had changed rather quickly once Nero had showed up.

The former Garlean Tribunus had been the least likely person to join NOAH, and yet he seemed surprisingly possessive of the Wind’s Waltz, which he claimed to be  _ his _ ship, by way of being the only reason why it is still in one piece. 

As much as Garlond claims he is not one for childish competition and engineering egos, he seems remarkably motivated when Nero tol Scaeva is involved. Or maybe it is the Waltz’ mythical engine that spurs him into risking his life here today.

“Oh dear, we’re coming upon the first line of defenses shortly…” G’raha Tia says, suddenly looking like he wants to be absolutely anywhere other than the frontmost seat of the Wind’s Waltz.

It seems he is much too distraught to hear Doga and Unei’s insistence that they are fully capable of opening the door with this royal blood of theirs. Perfect.

“Excited, scholar-man?” W’sidra spares a glance to grin at the terrified Miqo’te, “The Allagan weaponry you’ve studied, in all its glory, and you’ve got a frontrow seat!”

“Don’t ya worry, G’raha sir.” Ciriana says kindly from behind him, with a comforting hand on his shoulder, “If we die, I’m sure it’ll be all quick-like. People usually pass out before they hit the ground when falling from this height.”

“By the Twelve I wish I prayed more before getting on this hellbound bucket of bolts…”

“No point worryin’ none bout it.” Ciriana suggests, “Don’t ya trust us?”

“I trust  _ you _ .” G’raha says, his fear evoking a surprising amount of both candidness and curtness in his manner. It seems to catch Ciriana off guard for a moment. W’sidra catches quite the surprised look in the little lizard’s face in her rearview mirror. 

“I don’t know if I trust this 10 time Chocobo Gran Prix Winner, within whose hands all of our lives are being held. Hands, that I might add, are also juggling a sandwich along with them.”

W’sidra takes a bite of her tomato and aldgoat steak sandwich and puts her hands back on the wheel, “Just keepin’ the hands busy ‘afore the real deal starts.”

G’raha gestures vaguely around them at the violently shaking metal death machine they are trapped in. 

“None of this concerns you in the slightest yet?” he says, nervously watching her rapidly moving hand that is clearly struggling to stabilize the ship as they spiral up the Crystal Tower’s length.

“Alright, there’s that thing he mentioned, get yourself ready, girl.” W’sidra tells Ciriana as she spots a slightly different structure in the Crystal Tower’s walls.

“By the floating isles of Sharlayan, that’s an Allagan Drone Launcher.” G’raha takes a deep breath as he starts mumbling a few prayers.

“It’s dangerous and all…” Ciriana says, drawing the man’s attention to her, “But ain’t it a bit more fun this way?”

She smiles brilliantly at the boy and offers a one-eyed wink, before running into the hallway, sword at the ready.

“Door please, Cap’n!” she calls out as she runs by Kiria.

“Oho, things are getting wild now!” W’sidra exclaims as she spots a stream of mechanical pursuers spewing out of the small holes in the tower.

She takes the wheel with both her hands, messily squishing her sandwich into the handle, and hits a few switches drawing more power from the troubled ceruleum engine behind her.

“These aren’t ships you can fight or escape conventionally!” G’raha explains, his eyes wild with fear, “They’re too small to shoot, and they attack by swarming their enemies and consuming them with small but powerful weaponry!”

“Nothing about the Songs of the Wind is conventional!” Kiria replies triumphantly as she pumps a fist, “Behold! The Waltz’s greatest defense!”

With a single rope tied around her waist, Ciriana Haragin becomes visible from the glass above the cockpit. She plants her feet on the roof of the Waltz, her blade at her side, ready to be drawn. A brilliant smile fills her face as her hair and clothes whip around her violently in the air.

“Unconventional doesn’t necessarily mean effective! What is a sword going to do against a swarm...there!” 

The rust-haired Miqo’te points desperately at the very obvious cloud of tiny machines rapidly approaching them.

“No different than dodgin’ some good ol’ Garlean cluster bombs!” 

The ship bucks wildly, twisting and turning on its relentless upwards trajectory. As the wave of fist sized pursuers begin to overtake them, a sudden and powerful push to the side shakes the contents of the Garlean Harrier.

Ciriana’s blade hadn’t flashed out for more than half a second, but that legendary speed and power is itself a weapon, even against a formless mass like these Allagan drones.

The very air about them shudders and unleashes a powerful shockwave from the force of the Warrior of Light’s strike. The cloud of tiny machines are almost sucked into a slight vacuum at first, but are quickly dispersed if not outright destroyed by the sudden explosion of air.

“Cute, ain’t she?” W’sidra nudges G’raha’s amazed face at the sheer display of power.

He has seen her in combat a few times, though they were only light spars, or that time when he was also preoccupied with not getting arrested by the Brass Blades, or that time when he was driving the getaway chocobo from that business in Limsa Lominsa, or that time when she was extracting some aethersands from a price gouger in Ul’dah, or that time she was convincing a few noisy people to leave the hotsprings in better hands...

Either way, while he must understand by now that she is a capable fighter and the crew’s best chance in a brawl, only now can he truly witness what it means to be the absurd world-defining force that is the Warrior of Light.

The precious child looks down at them through the window and offers a jubilant wave, even in the face of winds that are easily powerful enough to rip an entire house apart.

“It’s just started, that’s Allagan ehm, it’s explosive!” he points straight at a number of bright lights flying at them. “You can’t slice it, you have to avoid them!”

The number of lights grows as W’sidra’s control over the Waltz grows increasingly more difficult as they ascend ever higher.

“This is where you see that Ciri ain’t the only crazy one in this here crew.” she says, taking a quick bite out of her sandwich.

“Third Song of the Wind, The Gust’s Chorus, W’sidra Tyaka!” She announces her name with a shout, psyching herself up as what now must be dozens of Allagan missiles streak through the sky at them from every direction, “To Freedom and the Great Blue Skies!”

The crew behind her shouts the refrain behind her. W’sidra can feel the tension in her muscles spread throughout her entire body. Excitement delves deep into her very bones as the thrill of unavoidable death looms before them. Every second matters. The slightest mistake will cost them all their lives. This one’s for all the marbles. W’sidra would have it no other way.

Sweet adrenaline fills her veins, and pushes her senses and body to its utmost limit.

With an expert hand, W’sidra tosses her sandwich into the air, catching it with her mouth, as she spins the wheel left and right, pulling it up and down, adjusting yaw, pitch, roll, and speed with utmost precision. Missiles whistle by in an endless song of death that the 10 time Chocobo Gran Prix champion is determined to outlast.

Rapid shockwaves are fired from Ciriana’s blade as easily as one might fire arrows, every one of them cleaving explosive paths through the field of flames.

“I am but a melody carried in the wind!” W’sidra sings, all the while still chewing a mouthful of aldgoat, “Catch me if you can!”

Her grin grows wider as she pulls every trick in her arsenal to keep them moving onwards.

“Get me more juice Simonaud!” she yells loudly, unfortunately dropping her into her lap from the effort.

“Are you insane!?” Nero yells back.

“We are only moments from exploding ourselves!” Cid agrees “The engine can’t take any more of this strain!”

“Don’t touch  _ any _ thing you fool in the garb of an engineer, if you get us all killed, I will personally follow you to whatever hellpit your soul finds itself in and strangle you to death!”

“Oh don’t worry!” Simonaud says cheerfully, “Usually when she asks for more juice, I usually just do this, it’ll be fine!”

“DON’T TOUCH THAT!” a chorus filled with terror echoes from the rear end of the ship, but Simonaud does his job regardless.

W’sidra watches a gauge at the front flip all the way up and pulls a lever, pumping even more ceruleum into the engine and drawing even more speed.

The speed demon whoops with joy as her maneuvres increase in snappiness and they begin to outrun the endless stream of rockets following them.

“By all that is holy, he’s a genius!” Garlond shouts from behind.

“But how!? How is that even working!?” Nero seems to lose his mind at the mechanical marvels going on in the back room, “I had it solved! I fixed it! That spoon was the lynchpin, that was it! That should not work…”

“It’s the sock, Nero! It’s made out of Peiste leather! Peiste leather!”

“That explains everything! The man’s either the luckiest idiot on the planet or a damned genius! We’ll solve this forsaken puzzle yet!”

A celebration of sorts is going on in the engine room, the atmosphere amongst all the Waltz’ guests is growing into one of excitement instead of despair at last.

Try as the Crystal Tower might, its automated defenses cannot prevent the Wind’s Waltz from dancing higher and higher.

All of the Allagan monument’s might is brought to bear, as weapons are summoned, monsters are unleashed and even Allagan heroes are thrown after their ship. And yet together, W’sidra and Ciriana carve their own path through the otherwise inevitable destiny of doom.

“By the Twelve, that’s one of the Allagan heroes up there!” G’raha points upwards at a lone figure descending upon them from above, “The great magician Amon! In the very flesh himself! The man who resurrected Emperor Xande!”

A flurry of silks and feathers falls past them, and with a sweep of a brilliant red cape, the pursuing missiles are dismissed instantly.

“He means to pursue us personally!”

“Haermhimal! Grab Ciri’s rope, don’t let her fall too far!” Kiria orders, grabbing a length of the rope herself.

Without hesitation, the Ballad of Blades unlatches herself from the roof of the ship and immediately flings herself off the Waltz after the warlock in a headfirst dive.

“She’s insane!” G’raha exclaims, half out of fear for the little lizard he had come to know, and half out of excitement at the feats that he is beginning to believe her to be capable of.

Haermhimal and Kiria struggle against the rope, doing their best to keep the Warrior of Light from plunging to her death.

A few tense seconds pass as the two larger members of the Songs of the Wind grunt with exertion as they wrestle with the Blade’s anchor.

“I think she got him.” Kiria says after a few moments.

“Yeah, think that’s the signal,” Haermhimal agrees far too casually casually.

“Yeah, we’re good, reel her up!”

With one hand holding onto the rope, and her foot on a looped foothold, Ciriana slowly rises up past the cockpit window. In her other hand, she holds the most majestic feathered hat any have ever seen that is easily her entire height in its width.

She sweeps the hat to the side and offers an elaborate and elegant bow to G’raha Tia, with a silly grin plastered on her face.

The expert on Allagan mythology and history is almost dumbfounded at what he has just witnessed, but perhaps he can’t help but be dragged into the atmosphere of the Songs of the Wind. He lets out a laugh, either out of relief, or despair or out of pure enjoyment of the adventure.

The door opens with a hiss and Ciriana drops in, intact, smiling, and sporting the enormous fancy hat.

“Nice hat, ain’t it?” she asks, sticking her head into the massively oversized accessory. Her face peeks out from the corner, just barely, showing off the captivating smile she always has after a fun bout of primitive violence.

G’raha immediately stands up from his seat and hurries over to her.

“By the Twelve, never in my life did I think I would ever bear witness to such wondrous feats of heroic prowess!” he exclaims, grasping her hand in his.

The girl blushes furiously and quickly masks her embarrassment by returning her face to the safe confines of her recent plunder.

“Oh, it ain’t nothin’...” she says sheepishly, not accustomed to having people gush over her abilities. The Songs at least never did. It’s her job as the Blade, after all, and they all do what is expected of their role.

“Did you have fun?” she asks expectantly, clearly a little worried and about the man’s response.

“Well, I would say my heart has near beat itself out of my own ribcage and it may take me a moment to collect my wits about me before I can properly describe…”

He takes a deep breath, swallows whatever words were about to pour from his mouth and lets it out slowly with a sigh.

“Well perhaps this level of excitement and adventures fraught with danger is not one I have had a chance to experience in my time as a Student of Baldesion. I feel that perhaps now I understand what it is like to be a historian recording the accomplishments of the bold and brave before them. So yes. I suppose I would say this adventure has certainly been quite fun.”

Ciriana beams like she had found a kitten that had taken a liking to her.

G’raha turns back to the cockpit and looks upon the Crystal Tower.

“We’re here.” He says in amazement as the airship passes the final shards of crystal reaching into the heavens.

“And the final Emperor himself sits upon his throne, unsealed from his millenia long stasis by the light of the sun.”

“And I take it he’s not interested in letting us run off with the loot, right?” Kiria asks rhetorically.

“Well, he is the one who brought about the downfall of the Allagan Empire by forging a contract with the-”

“Off with his head!”

“Aye aye, Cap’n!” Ciriana tosses her hat off and offers an enthusiastic salute to her Captain.

The door slides open once more and the Ballad of Blades is played once more in the highest and grandest of stages. A performance for the ages, forever burned into the heart and memory of a certain researcher of artifacts Allagan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately the plunder to be had from the Tower isn't quite as fun as Kiria would like, since it's mostly just a one-way portal to the World of Darkness. Luckily, the Warrior of Light happens to be around to save the planet from an imminent world ending voidsent cataclysm though.


	7. Shimmering Fantasy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The World of Darkness conquered, the Crystal Tower at peace at last. NOAH and the Songs of the Wind take a moment to relax in Costa del Sol and celebrate their accomplishments.

“To Freedom and the Great Blue Skies!” The crew cheers, every one of them holding their glasses skyward before unceremoniously splashing as much alcohol as their glasses could carry into their throats.

Laughter rolls through the party as Haermhimal splutters on his drink and once again fails to chug his entire glass. 

The Flying Shark is not unaccustomed to large gatherings, but perhaps it is a bit too rowdy for a pirate’s after-mission celebration. The festivities started the moment the Wind’s Waltz crashed into the sunny sands of Costa del Sol, and had only gotten larger and more chaotic as the rest of the members of NOAH completed their duties and arrived to join.

The Sons of Saint Coinach have turned out to be surprisingly good partiers, with Rammbroes handily shaming both Haermhimal and Biggs in a well hyped up armwrestling competition. 

“In this final round, in the Blue corner, hailing from the distant Azim Steppe and youngest member of the Songs of the Wind, we have...The Ballad of Blades, Ciriana Haragin!”

The Flying Shark’s other patrons are handily swept up in the atmosphere and are already swarming around the makeshift arena made of tables, shouting jeers and bets reminiscent of certain underground Triple Triad tournament.

W’sidra is standing on top of a tower of tables, now dubbed the Syrcus Tower. Dressed in an eye-catching swimsuit, her loud proclamations draw in even the attention of the wealthy Gegeruju, observing the scene from his private villa.

Ciriana sits in a chair decorated with enough flowers to nearly be called a throne. Kiria stands behind her, ineffectually massaging her arm as if preparing her for a duel.

“I say take on his right arm.” she says, with all the knowledge and experience of a woman who has never coached an arm wrestling match before, “He must be tired after that bout with Haermhimal, and it’ll look like you faced him at his strongest regardless. Make sure you restore the crew’s honour!”

“Aye aye, Cap’n.” Ciriana nods enthusiastically.

G’raha is seemingly doing the same for Rammbroes, hyping up the book-ish mammoth of a man in the other corner of the arena.

She can’t say she’s used to his now matching red eyes. She quite liked the way they mismatched before, and the cyan always reminded her of the plains of her distant homeland. Moreover, she couldn’t help but think back to Unei and Doga, the two members of NOAH left behind.

“Keep your head in the game, Blade!” Kiria yells into her face, snapping the girl back into the moment, “He looks like a bookworm, but those muscles look like the books he reads are made out of solid steel! Don’t let your guard down!”

W’sidra does a fancy pirouette at the top of the Syrcus Tower, and nearly falls off on account of her inebriation, “In the RED corner, from the city of NERDS, Sharlayan! This man lifts libraries for fun and reads books the size of mountains, we’ve got the champion of the Sons of Saint Coinach! Rammbroes Lasers...TIN!”

“It’s Zasertylsyn.” the man corrects calmly despite the dozens of mugs of ale had already put away.

“Thas what I said!”

“Do a spin when you go up.” Kiria recommends, “And a cute pose and a wink or something. Try to look cute. Let him win for a bit, then once the bets are high enough, throw his arm all the way back into the World of Darkness.”

Haermhimal hurries over and quickly weaves a large pink flower into her hair, “Try to look harmless, girl.” he says gruffly, his fingers moving deftly with her locks, “Which’ll be easy, since you’re adorable.”

He slips on a flower garland over her neck and adds a small flowery pink bracelet onto her left wrist.

“Ugh, if only we had more time…”

“Contestants! For the great prize of free drinks for the rest of the night! Are you ready!?”

“Aye!” Ciriana shouts pumping a fist into the air.

“Indeed, I am.” Rammbroes replies.

“Rammbroes, our uncontested winner so far, step up to the stage!”

The lumbering man gets to his feet and casually approaches the table at the centre of the arena.

Cheers roar out for him regardless, and the Sons of Saint Coinach, all sense of professionalism now out the window, rhythmically cheer his name relentlessly.

“And now our little dark-scaled lizard girl, Ciriana Haragin, step on up!”

Ciriana springs to her feet, and does a perfect twirl as she stands, letting her effervescent pareo shimmer in the candlelight. She stops in a short pose, holding two fingers in front of her eye and winks at audience at the other side.

“Cute!”

“She’s so small, do lizards have any muscle on them?”

“Do you think she’s single?”

“Are those scales real? Won’t that give him a good grip?”

“Don’t be deceived! I hear the Xaela are a freakishly powerful people!”

W’sidra summarizes the attitude of the room quickly.

“Ain’t she adorable! Who knows what this mysterious dancer from the east can do? What is she thinking challenging our uncontested CHAMPION in a battle of PURE STRENGTH!?”

With a few short but showy dance moves, Ciriana quickly makes her way over to the table, opting to cartwheel over the back of the chair before getting into place.

She lands in her seat with a brilliant smile, and looks past Rammbroes to find her Allagan Royal Eye sporting friend.

The Miqo’te in question is, for some reason unknown, holding his face in a hand and covering his eyes.

Ciriana’s smile melts away as her heart grows heavy with concern for the man. Is he crying? Is that concern in his eyes? No...then why isn’t he looking at her, even though she has captured the attention of the entire room?

A small pout comes to her lips as she watches him closely, waiting for him to look up and watch, but he seems suddenly preoccupied with studying the support beam for the roof instead.

Without a word, and without a single glance, he turns and steps away from the crowd, vanishing into the night beaches beyond Ciriana’s gaze.

Ciriana’s pout turns into a frown of concern. What could possibly be driving him away from the party that is being thrown partially in his honour? Is he not happy about the Crystal Tower’s mysteries being solved and the threat to Eorzea thwarted? Maybe he feels a little lost with what to do with himself now. Ciriana wouldn’t know what to do if she ever ran out of strong opponents to beat up, maybe he’s experiencing that fear of hers.

The Warrior of Light blinks twice as a sudden silence draws her out of her thoughts.

All the eyes in the world are trained on her, or more importantly, what’s in front of her. In particular, it is Rammbroes’ hand on the table, underneath hers, straining to move from where she has pinned it.

“Oh I’m sorry.” she says, pulling his hand sharply in the other direction, with the back of her palm close to the surface of the table.

“Oh no!” she exclaims dramatically, shaking her hand slightly to make it look like it’s a close race, “You got the strength of a gorilla, Rammbroes! But I ain’t gonna lose just yet!” 

She looks to the Captain quickly, who is now also applying her hand to her face.

“In an astounding 1 second bout, the champion is determined with little contest from her opponent!” W’sidra announces, gathering her composure the quickest, “Ciriana Haragin of the Songs of the Wind is the victor!”

“Oi, ya big lunk! Don’t be throwin’ the match jus’ ‘cuz she a wee girl!”

A large highlander man pushes through the crowd and plonks himself down at the table opposite Ciriana.

“Yet another challenger appears!” W’sidra gets a mischievous glint in her eye as she changes her tune, “Step up one and all! 100 Gil is the small price for an easy 100,000 gil! Defeat the tournament winner and win the prize!”

A number of drunk patrons with something to prove, or money to regain after betting it on Rammbroes begin to line up.

“I ain’t showin’ you no mercy, that gil is-”

The man is interrupted by Ciriana slamming his hand against the table despite his greatest efforts.

He yowls in anger, but is quickly pushed to the back of the line by an even larger man with even more to prove.

“I’m not some macho idiot with meaningless pride, I’m a trained fighter with-”

An equally quick match is finished in a blink of an eye.

Mechanically, Ciriana swiftly defeats each and every challenger before her, until every last prospective candidate is sufficiently convinced of her strength that they choose to spend the remainder of their gil on comforting drinks instead.

Brynhilde laughs as she shovels in the small mountain of gil into a pouch.

Kiria arrives back at the table, with a celebratory drink in hand, her favourite Rolanberry Lassi, but by the time she wades through the crowd, Ciriana is nowhere to be found.

Perched atop the roof of the establishment, just a handful of yalms above the continuing festivities, she scans the horizon for a certain red haired Miqo’te. 

She isn’t quite certain which direction he had gone, but even in the moonlight, her Xaela eye is quite adept at picking out lone stragglers.

Except when she finally does pick out the pony tailed Student of Baldesion she’s looking for, he isn't quite alone.

With practiced gracefulness even dragoons would be jealous of, Ciriana launches herself from the roof, soaring several yalms into the night sky. Her pareo wrapped about her waist puts in a valiant effort hanging onto her as she dives directly into the sand, not 10 paces away from her prey.

A tidal wave of sand is launched in a circle around her, showering G’raha Tia as well as his companion with a combination of dry and wet particles along with whatever might have been burrowed within.

“Crab!” Ciriana shouts helpfully as she tosses an aforementioned crab at the scantily clad Miqo’te girl walking beside the scholar.

The temptress lets out a squeal of fear before fleeing for the safety of civilization.

“C-Ciriana!?” G’raha stammers, spitting sand out of his mouth, “Is that you!?”

“Oh, uh…” she is a thankful the darkness of the night is masking the embarassment displayed on her face. “Hi...what a surprise um, fancy seein’ ya here.”

She waves as casually as she can, as if she hadn’t expected to find him here.

“Where in the blazes did you come from?” the man asks, still bewildered as he brushes sand off his shoulders.

“Oh, I’m jus’ out for a little walk...sober up some, y’know. I beat Rammbroes by the way! And a bunch of other people, I think.”

The man’s slightly unnerving red eyes sparkle in the moonlight for a moment before he lets out a hearty laugh. It goes on a little longer than it should, and Ciriana quickly checks her swimsuit top and pareo to make sure nothing strange happened to it on the way here.

“I don’t doubt it in the slightest.” He says finally, his laughter ending as abruptly as it started.

“Wh-Who was that lady just now?” Ciriana asks, doing her best to hide the suspicion in her voice, “I don’t think she likes crabs all that much.”

“No one of import.” the man replies with a shrug, “A local, perhaps, wondering why I left the party. She invited me to her home but-”

“Ya shouldn’t follow strangers!” Ciriana blurts out, “A hands-...uh...a rich looking guy like you might get attacked or mugged in the night!”

“Well, perhaps I am fortunate you found me then!” he says with a smile, seemingly suppressing a chuckle, “Now that you’re here, would it trouble you to accompany on a moonlit walk then?”

“W-With me?” her heart skips a beat.

“Well, I trust the infamous Sky Pirates of Eorzea aren’t about to mug a simple boring scholar, are they?”

“You ain’t borin’ though,” she argues earnestly, “You know all those stories about them Allagans and whatnot, and you got those Royal Eyes and stuff!”

The change in his expression at the mention of his eyes makes her regret her last words.

“Walk with me, will you?” he asks, and this time she simply nods in return.

The two set off along the coast of Costa del Sol, just a few paces from the furthest tendrils of the rising and ebbing tide. 

They walk in silence, and eventually the sound of their friends’ joviality is hidden beneath the unending rhythm of the waters.

Ciriana steals a glance at the silent man of many words, and finds his expression worrying in its unreadability.

This is the man who so proudly taunted and tested her when fetching the aethersands, the man who had entered the scene in as bombastic a manner as a Sky Pirate, impressing even the Sons of Saint Coinach with his knowledge and unhesitating drive towards progress.

And yet he has yet to even look at her properly for even a moment.

“Are you alright?” she asks, feeling more helpless than she is accustomed to.

“Oh, there is nothing to worry you.” he replies with a forced smile, “Loud parties are not always for me. I didn’t have many doubts as to whom might be the one to emerge victorious regardless.”

“Well…” Ciriana begins, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, “Now that the Crystal Tower’s been unlocked ‘n all...I was thinking maybe this...NOAH ain’t going to hold much purpose no more…”

“I suppose that is true.” He agrees in measured words, “I’m afraid Nero and Kiria’s plot to abscond with the Tower’s power in order to craft a gigantic floating weaponized Sky Pirate harem are ill fated.”

“Y-You knew about that!?”

“‘Tis a noble dream indeed,” he says with a chuckle, “Though the Songs may be better off seeking less dangerous solutions to their desires.”

“Well that wouldn’t be nearly as fun, would it?”

“It certainly would not.” he answers with a wistful smile.

“I can’t say this expedition went quite the way I had expected it to,” he says, “But while I have some regrets, I wouldn’t trade the experience for anything else, traumatizing close shaves with death included.”

He looks at her for a moment, with a smile before quickly and suddenly turning away.

“Well, now you’re thinking like a Sky Pirate!”

“Ha! Perhaps I am indeed.”

Ciriana nervously presses her thumbs together as they take a few more steps in silence, before she finally works up the nerve.

“Well, since y’all are gonna be done with them expeditions and such, wouldja like to join the Songs of the Wind? It don’t needa be a permanent all day long thing, I hop out erry once in a while when them Scions need some primal slayin’ around, it’s no problem, Cap’n’s real nice about that!”

She pauses for a moment when she realizes G’raha’s steps have stopped beside her. He’s busy sticking his face into his hand once more for some reason.

“What’s wrong!?” she asks, hurrying back over to him.

“I-It’s nothing.” he answers, turning away for a moment, “It’s these...bugs...flying into my face, almost got my eye.”

“Let me see!”

“I’m quite alright.”

Ciriana pries the man’s hand away from his eye and examines his face.

“Oh that ain’t blood, that’s good.” she says, poking at the liquid on his cheek, “It’s a little red around there, but don’t rub it, that ain’t good for yer eyes.”

G’raha steps back and looks away from her, and coughs loudly once or twice.

“My apologies.” he says, slowly recovering his composure.

“Here, sit down.” Ciriana guides him over to a rock and parks herself alongside him.

“Did you hear what I said?” Ciriana asks, torn between her desire to ensure his safety and to hear his answer, “You can be one of us, you’ve already been through tons with the crew and I’m sure they’d love to have an um, expert on artifacts Allagan like you aboard. Maybe you can find a proper treasure for us to raid!”

G’raha chuckles a little.

“Sailing about the world, seeing all the sights Hydaelyn has to offer, without a care in the world…” he mutters, “Freedom and the Great Blue Skies.”

“Kiria makes us all nice and cool titles and all about songs, I’m the Ballad of Blades, she’s Freedom’s Ditty, Bryn is the Ode to Flames, you could be something cool too, like the uhm, Smart Dance! Or the Brainy Jig! Or something!”

“Tremble in fear, for it is I, the Brainy Jig, here to make off with all your jewelry and valuables!” G’raha strikes a pose in his seat, presumably emphasizing his extensive faculties of the brainy persuasion.

Ciriana giggles at his antics and he lets out a mirthful laugh at last.

“Y-You don’t need to answer right away...but I’d really like it if you joined us...sometimes. There’s an extra room aboard, and it’s been empty for so, so very long...”

She watches him continue to chuckle at his own Sky Pirate’s introduction, carefully keeping track of how his face appears so radiant, even with only the moon’s light behind her to illuminate him. The way his ponytail bobs as his body shakes with laughter, the way his tense muscles finally relax, all of it is engraved deep into her memory.

She really wants him to join. He’s kind, and smart, and tells such wonderful stories of ancient Allag with an almost contagious excitement about him. Ever since they first met, she couldn’t keep him from her thoughts for long. How would he react to this? What would he think of that? 

Even as her sword had met with Shiva’s in a battle within the Akh Afah Ampitheatre, she could barely enjoy the battle, so consumed was her mind with wondering what G’raha Tia’s opinion of the duel might be like. What fancy words would he weave together to record and tell the tale?

The thought of them parting, him to remain evermore studying the giant hunk of crystal in Mor Dhona is...troubling to her, to say the least.

“You look lovely in the moonlight.”

Ciriana’s heart thumps louder than his words as her face suddenly grows hot. The man she cannot remove from her thoughts is staring right at her face, looking just as embarrassed as she.

“I-I mean…” he stammers, his characteristic verbosity suddenly lost, “The moon...it’s behind you and your eye is all...limbal rings and whatnot are very...that is...the light…”

Ciriana giggles at the man’s failure to string a proper sentence together.

“At the beginning of all things,” she begins, her voice taking on a different timbre as she recites the legend, “the Dawn Father Azim and the Dusk Mother Nhaama crafted the world of beauty we live in today. However, as those who love each other must always do, they quarreled over the rightful ruler of the land.”

G’raha’s embarrassment fades as his attention is drawn in by the tale of the Au Ra.

“The Raen, their blood thick with the Dawn and scales of brilliant gold, marched under the banner of Azim. The Xaela, their souls dyed with the Dusk and scales of lustrous black, were chosen to fight in the name of Nhaama.”

She looks to the moon for a moment, capturing its splendour in her single eye.

“And yet the Au Ra chose not to fight, but instead to love. Inspired and humbled by the beauty of their children, Dawn and Dusk chose to return to the heavens, leaving their legacy to rule themselves.”

“That’s a beautiful story,” G’raha whispers, “I had never heard of the Auri creation myth before today.”

“The Xaela are born of the Dusk Mother, and her blood flows strongly within us.” She reaches out towards the distant orb in the sky as if taking the moon itself into her palm, “Perhaps that is why we’ve always felt a certain kinship with the night.”

“Well, I suppose I have my answer now.” G’raha says suddenly.

Ciriana turns back to him and finds him looking directly into her eye. While she had been a little put out with him avoiding her, she now finds herself lost for words under his red eyed gaze.

“A-Answer?” she repeats slowly.

“There is nothing more I would love than to join the Songs of the Wind.” he says, in a strangely sad voice for such words of momentous joy, “To see the sights of the world, to stand alongside the Warrior of Light as you craft a future worth living in with your own hands. A future of freedom, a future of blue skies for all.”

“The heroes of yore I have studied cannot compare to the feats of heroism I have seen these past few months, by your hand and of those around you. The prayer for peace and safety that so many look to the skies for is fulfilled not by gods, but by the simple men and women who look upon a destiny of darkness and say ‘no more’. That the light be allowed to flourish, and darkness banished, the world needs only those with destiny to...step up.”

He takes her hand in hers, the warmth of his palms feeling more powerful than Rammbroes’ greatest efforts.

“Ciriana Haragin. A life by your side is my truest and deepest wish.”

Ciriana’s heart soars with excitement as all nervousness and anxiety is immediately dispelled from her body. Her breathing grows faster and all of a sudden her entire body is filled with restless energy.

Ciriana’s face beams with delight as she immediately throws her arms around the Miqo’te.

“Yay! You’ll be the Eight Song of the Wind then!” she exclaims excitedly. She pulls on his arm, lifting him to his feet, “We’d best go tell the others! They’ll be ecstatic!”

“I’ll race you there!”

“Wait, no, Ciriana there’s no way I can keep pace with…”

Far too much energy is pumping through her veins to do anything else but sprint back to the Flying Shark at full speed, grinning all the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cid and Nero are busy in the Waltz still trying to figure it out and fix it up after its poor landing at Costa del Sol. Brynhilde may look rather young, but she's actually older than Ciriana and can hold her drink as well as any.   
> Not everyone got some screentime at the party unfortunately, since we're mostly focusing on Ciriana and G'raha.


	8. Sparkling Requiem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The story of NOAH and the Crystal Tower comes to an end.

Faster than all the others, Ciriana makes it to the end of the hall first, violently slamming into an invisible barrier before the doors.

Without hesitation, her sword is drawn and is smashed against the barrier with enough force to shake the entire Crystal Tower.

“These doors will close ere long,” a painfully familiar voice comes from inside the Tower’s hall, “This barrier is beyond those braved upon our ascent, it will hold even before even your might.”

Ciriana takes a step back, sheathing her sword, but not in surrender. An Iaijutsu felt across the entire Singing Shards is unleashed, nearly tearing a hole in the dimension with its strength, and yet the mystical Allagan bulwark holds steady.

The blade that has withstood Ciriana’s inhuman strength so long shatters from the impact, but the girl pays no mind to the loss of her old battle companion and proceeds to throw her fists into the wall one after another.

Surely she must have accomplished something, if the barrier is weakened in the spot she slashed, surely she must be able to break through.

“It seems Cid could not keep my intentions to himself.” G’raha speaks morosely, stepping closer to the door, yet not crossing that final threshold.

“I suppose the precautions I took should be well rewarded then. You will find this barrier covers the Tower in its entirety, even a melody carried by the wind cannot penetrate its defenses. ‘Tis a defensive advantage of the Tower when placed in its dormant state.”

“Come outta there!” Ciriana shouts desperately, “Come out and  _ talk _ !”

“I did not wish our final meeting to be like this.” he says quietly, partially to himself, “And yet I find myself overjoyed that I might see you even one more time, painful as it may be.”

“He said you’re gonna sleep forever and ever,” Ciriana cries, “That you’re gonna lock yourself up in there all alone until the end of time, but why!?”

“Just as Unei and Doga fulfilled their destiny, so too must I fulfill mine. My blood has awakened me to this fact.” he answers cryptically, “My destiny has lain with Allag since my birth, or rather, the wish I must grant twas always here.”

“You’re not making no sense, G’raha, just come outta there, and show it to me with-with your diagrams and pictures and such!”

G’raha smiles wistfully, maybe remembering the lectures on Allagan history he had offered the Songs. Ciriana might not have understood it, but she had been the only one to stay awake throughout, transfixed by the man’s mesmerizing storytelling.

“As the Fourth Calamity ravaged the land, and the end of the Allagan Empire was brought about,” he explains, in the soothing tone of an experienced lecturer, “The people, the innocent, the hopeful looked to the Crystal Tower, seeking hope and salvation, and yet buried within the earth, its crystalline spires were nowhere to be found.”

“These people, the ancients of Allag hoped its graceful heights would one day again dominate the land, and prayed that the Crystal Tower would be a beacon of hope to people everywhere.”

The Student of Baldesion holds a hand to his once cyan and now red eye.

“Thin as the royal blood may have grown, with the restoration of my Allag blood granted to me by our friends Unei and Doga, so too have memories of an ancient people been restored. So too has the prayer and wish for a brighter tomorrow. A wish that only I may fulfill. A destiny that has only been opened to one. The tower  _ will _ shine forth one day as a new beacon of hope.”

“But they’re all dead!” Ciriana protests, “Who cares about their wish, who cares about the tower! Let the Garlond Ironworks and NOAH look into the tower, th-they’ll fix it up right and make it into...whatever it needs to be!”

G’raha shakes his head at her suggestion, “The Tower is too dangerous, and far too powerful. Were I to leave it in the hands of the people of today, it would sow naught but conflict and greed. Were I to abandon it, its power would lie sealed forevermore, until the last of Allagan blood flows no more within the veins of man. Until the day the men of Eorzea can rival the knowledge of the Allagans, it and I shall remain asleep. Until that day, the Tower shall be naught but a symbol, a promise to the future of man.”

“Well sod the future!” Ciriana shouts, her fists trembling with anger and fear, “And sod the ancients too! What about  _ my _ wish? What about me!? I need you, I need your hope right now, without it I’m- I can’t…You just jump into my life and make everything a mess and now you’re just gonna...disappear...for nothing...”

A thought crosses Ciriana’s mind and she brightens up.

“O-Open the gate!” she exclaims excitedly, “We can fly the Waltz in here, or park it at the top, we’ll come with you!”

“Surely our dream will be so much easier to grant if we just wait a bajillion years, right!? There’ll be floating castles everywhere and all we’ll have to do is steal one for ourselves! How exciting will that be? It’ll be like exploring a whole new world! Plunderin’ and doin’ whatever we want! Ya think the sky will still be blue in the future? Maybe it’ll be green, are we gonna hafta change our catchphrase? I think green will be fine but we’ll be in trouble ifn it’s purple or orange or somethin’. Come on, won’t it be grand?”

G’raha Tia chuckles for a moment, before letting out a brilliant laugh.

Ciriana can’t help but join in.

“As free as a melody dancing in the wind.” he says finally, taking a step past the threshold of the door. The barrier doesn’t weaken at all though.

“I always thought of the heroes of eld to be driven to the correct course of action by a combination of their sense of duty and a powerful sense of morality. Never could I have imagined what...sacrifice is needed in order to bring about not only the opportunity for a hero to arise, but for one to step into that role and fulfill it. Never could I have imagined the pain one must feel to grasp a destiny no other can hold.”

He shakes his head after a moment, as if coming to terms with something.

“I will not lie to you again. I cannot.” he says finally. “As much as my destiny is within this tower, lest we lose the hope of tomorrow. Your destiny lies at the front, in the battlefields of Eorzea, lest the hope of today perishes. Only you can create a world where hope reigns, and the tragedies of the past and present are naught but memories. Only you and your unstoppable might, only you with your pure heart and soul of kindness can accomplish such things. Build for me the future in which the Crystal Tower may awaken once more.”   
  
Tears begin to leak out of Ciriana’s eye at the second rejection and she hammers the wall once again with her fist, even as she knows it’s futile.

“No...No no NO NO NO!” she screams, her every protest punctuated by a strike with all her might.

“I want to show you the skies!” she cries, falling to her knees just a single yalm from the man she wants so desperately to throw her arms around and hold tight forevermore, “I want to show you the rolling steppes of Azim, I want to see the great big libraries you talked about and the floating isles and the flying allagan relics and all! I want to see it with  _ you _ , I want to hear their stories from  _ you  _ or there’s no point to seeing it at all!”

She lets out a sob as G’raha crouches down before her, still separated by a shimmering barrier.

“I...I haven’t even done anything for you yet…” She leans on the barrier in despair, begging for Hydaelyn to intervene and dispel it. After all she has done in the name of the Champion of the Light, can’t she be granted just one wish?

G’raha puts his hand against hers, from the other side of the barrier, but no warmth is transmitted through the wall of destiny between them. Not like the warmth in her hands she had felt just one night ago.

“Every time I look at you, my resolve wavers.” he admits, tears beginning to bud at the corner of his eyes as well, “How I wish I could toss it all away and soar through the skies beside you. How I wish I could see the world in your eyes, and show you the world in mine.”

“So do it...throw it all away and come with me anyway...” she speaks feebly, already knowing the answer.

“I must say for all the talk of freedom, it seems us Songs of the Wind don’t act much like Sky Pirates.” G’raha chuckles sadly, “We’re remarkably obedient to these shackles of destiny.”

“For the smiles of strangers, for the sake of a future we do not know, at the cost of our own happiness, we throw ourselves into the unknown. I have never thought myself a hero, I had never anticipated walking a legend like those I have only read of before. The titles and honour we bequeath upon these people belies the true pain of destiny they must endure.” He looks at her tenderly, an expression of sadness and gratitude engraved within his eyes, “You cannot say you have given me nothing. For with your every deed, courage swells within my own heart, and my own path grows ever clearer to do your legacy justice. I thank you for showing me how a true hero lives her life, free and kind.”

He stands up and turns back towards the interior of the tower.

Ciriana stands as well, but can’t find words to say to him. There are too many, and yet there are not enough to form a single sentence.

The twin gates begin to slowly inch their way closed. The Xaela’s heart jumps into her throat, choking out any words of protest she might shout.

“Send me off with a smile, would you?” he asks, a stupid forced grin squeezing its way through his tears.

She can’t move. Her entire body feels so very heavy. She can’t even remember how to smile. Her hand presses against the invisible wall, reaching for him, as if all she needs to do to keep him is to take him in her hand and run far away.

“I...I am so, so, sorry Ciriana Haragin. I...”

The others finally catch up, out of breath. There are some exclamations of horror and protests against the closing doors. A number of ridiculous orders are called out, but they die down as the doors inch ever onwards.

“Farewell, my friends. I eagerly await a future born of your courage and the ancients’ wish.”

His final words escape from the confines of the Crystal Tower, and nothing else follows as the massive doors slam shut, flashing one ultimate time before growing still.

“Sleep well, G’raha Tia…” she mumbles, a pained smile slowly seeping through a mirthless face.

However nobody is there to see it. Only two cold, unmoving doors that would yield for none.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, not quite an end, one last epilogue to this story arc coming


	9. Crystal Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the depths of the Crystal Tower, there is an Ocular. And within that room, lies a little office, filled and covered with loose stacks of paper and research notes.  
> Within those, there are two letters. One read many, many times. And another pristine as the day it was written, waiting for the day it can be delivered.
> 
> [Shadowbringer Spoilers in this chapter]

To the Eighth Song of the Wind

The Lullaby to the Eternal Wind, G’raha Tia

From your Captain, Kiria dus Sanvis, Freedom’s Ditty.

Hey, you bloody tart. That’s right, that’s you. It’s me. Your Captain. You haven’t reported for duty for a single mission since joining, and that’s a wee bit irritating after all that effort we put into recruiting you.

I imagine by the time you read this, the Songs of the Wind are no more, though I must say that even now there ain’t much left of us.

I don’t know if you’ve gotten the lay of the land yet, but it ain’t good. That bright future you prayed for never came to pass. And so we’ve come to drag you out of your Twelvesdamned nap into the hellhole we call life now. I can’t imagine what it’ll be like by the time they dig you out. Probably worse. I seriously have no idea what could possibly be worse than this, but so far the world has succeeded in surprising me multiple times. 

Maybe it wouldn’t have come this far if you hadn’t locked yourself up. Who knows. Yes. I’m leaving that for your conscience. It’s only fair considering what you left us with.

I’m sure the technical details will be delivered to you by whoever slaps you awake and gives you the beating of a lifetime I owe you. But as your Captain, it is my duty to give you, the final surviving member of the Songs of the Wind, your orders.

  
Travel through time. Take back our world. Make things right. And bring my family back together to the way they should be.

The honour of the greatest Sky Pirates in Eorzea rests on your shoulders. You will succeed. Or by the Twelve I am going to tie you to the back of the Waltz with a strand of yarn and fly you through Azys Lla until one of those automated drones takes a liking to you.

P.S: I know I’m dead, but that does  _ not _ make you the Captain of the Songs of the Wind. Until my final orders are carried out, you are still  _ my _ subordinate. Once they are complete, the dream of the Symphony of Gales is in your hands.

Don’t let me down.

To Freedom and the Great Blue Skies.

Kiria dus Sanvis, CAPTAIN of the Songs of the Wind

* * *

  
  


To the Seventh Song of the Wind, The Ballad of Blades, my beloved Ciriana Haragin

From Kiria dus Sanvis

I miss you all terribly. It seems selfish to miss you all so much when there are mouths to feed, bandits to fight, and parts to scavenge right now.

Yet it seems without the old crew working together, the price for recklessness is paid in lives. Heists are successful, missions are always accomplished. Yet with every victory comes the loss of yet another of these young courageous children. It bothers me how not one of them will ever hurt as much as yours.

Maybe there is nothing left of your beloved Captain left in this empty husk of mine. 

You are so small. So fragile. So delicate. I never realized that until the day I held your tiny Xaela body in my arms. 

Maybe we should have run away from it all. The war, the Garleans, the Black Rose. No. We definitely should have run away from it all.

The day I heard of your destiny, of your role in this crazy world of ours, I was convinced it was but a little diversion of your time, that perhaps a year or two would pass, and we would go back to roaming the skies, plundering and pillaging as our hearts desired.

For a time, I was happy that was not the case. We saw new lands, we had wild and crazy adventures. We chased primals, stole powerful weapons, freed an entire citystate, saw your homeland and killed a crown prince or two.

And then as swiftly and abruptly as you came into our lives, you left. You, and W’sidra, and Brynhilde. My family, torn asunder in an instant.

There was no one to pick up where you left off. Nothing but dark times followed after that. We did what we could, Haermhimal and I. We built a new crew, brought people to safety. Simonaud rebuilt a whole new world of technology in a world where aether doesn’t stick like it should. NOAH got together once more, minus many members. A bitter nostalgia that meeting was.

We did our best. We tried to fill that hole in the world you left. There were so many inspired by your tales of heroism, by your kind words. The Ballad of Blades is sung around every miserable campfire, bringing the world a tiny speck of hope in a dead world.

It didn’t go well. Nothing ever did. We tried  _ so _ hard and yet the world was mad, and we were the insane for trying to bring a spark of hope to it.

Somehow, though, if you are reading this. We did it. We broke time itself and sent the Crystal Tower after you, to a time before the tragedy, to erase this horrid future we now reside in. If it worked after all, then I take full credit for it. It was  _ my _ idea and I am the Captain, after all.

I won’t bore you with the details, I know how much trouble you have with reading, but there are so many words I want to leave to you, the dashing and valiant Ciriana of another world, untouched by tragedy, free of the Garlean doom encroaching upon your borders.

The harmony the Songs of the Wind form when sung together is the most beautiful melody I have ever known. All of you mean the world to me, more than life itself.

I hope the me of your world appreciates what she has, and I hope you too can understand what you mean to us and stay safe for our sake. I miss you all so much, and it hurts that I will never see you again. If, with my final dregs of life, I can bring light and hope to another me and another you and another performance of the Songs of the Wind, then I give them gladly.

Never stop singing, my dear Ballad of Blades. Your music is that which breathes life into this very star. And you will never stand alone in your song. We will be there with you, forever and always.

To Freedom and the Great Blue Skies,

Kiria dus Sanvis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little epilogue to the Crystal Tower section. Naturally, since Shadowbringers is on my mind due to recency bias, anything involving the Crystal Tower inspires a little bit of World of the First writing, and I think this is sufficient as an ending without getting into too much Shadowbringers details.


	10. Marauder's Gavottee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Warrior of Light is about to make her political debut, and Haermhimal is not going to have her show up in front of royalty looking like the savage Eikon Slayer she really is.

  
  


“W’sidra!” Haermhimal bellows with a force strong enough to shake every bolt in the Wind’s Waltz loose, “W’sidra if ya think this shoddy work is any proper, by the grace of the Twelve, I will tie you to the bottom of this boat and land the ship myself!”

Adept at making herself scarce, when danger calls, W’sidra is nowhere to be found. The Waltz is hardly enormous, and yet the slimy Miqo’te still manages to find a place beyond Haermhimal’s reach.

The First Mate curses before turning back to Ciriana.

“Ye  _ ain’t  _ gonna be goin’ out lookin’ like that.” he scowls at the gaudy outfit W’sidra had dressed the Warrior of Light in.

The scaly pirate looks at herself dressed in ill fitting and rather revealing Miqo’te separates and loincloth and shrugs.

“Looks fine to me, Haermhimal.” she says, adjusting the roomy skirt to keep it from slipping off of her hips.

“By Llymlaen’s teats, you’re gonna be meetin’ the Twelvesdamned Sultana herself!” he disagrees, “Bryn, go fetch that chest from yer room, I’ll deal with...this…”

“Siddown, ya washed up scallywag!” He pushes the Warrior of Light into a chair and appraises the work before him.

“Ya got yerself plenty of nice black hair and it like ya don’t even care about it no more.” he growls, holding a lock of hair with his hook and vigorously passing a comb through it, “Don’t we still got them fancy soaps we looted from that big Ishgard job?”

Ciriana sighs dejectedly, “What’s even the point…” she mumbles, “Fat lotta help smellin’ nice’ll do for killin’ Ascians…”

The girl had been doing that a lot of late. Ever since the whole Crystal Tower job. She had cried her heart out for days after that incident, and even now, she is prone to the occasional bout of sniffles without warning. He hadn’t seen a proper smile on her since. She went about her duties as the Warrior of Light and as a Song of the Wind with an almost apathetic demeanour and it bothered him how little he could actually help her.

He had thought the Captain would be put out with the girl’s lack of enthusiasm recently, but even she could be surprisingly tactful at times. Keeping things business as usual, with the usual ridiculous operations, and finding entertaining opponents to let their Blade test its sharpness. Even in the thick of battle, the girl didn’t seem to enjoy herself any longer, but the Captain did her best to give her life some semblance of stability.

She said not to press her on the issue, that when the time was right, their Blade would be back to her old wide-eyed, curious and bubbly self who gets excited at any opportunity to indulge in rampant bloodletting..

That had been before the whole dragon business at the Silvertear lake, and before the Ascian attack on the Scions. Invincible as she might be on the battlefield, the girl is as fragile and as strong only as any other when it comes to her heart. The repeated emotional beatdown her tragic fate has unleashed upon her at her lowest would be enough to bring most to their knees. And yet the burden upon the child’s shoulders only grows in size and weight.

Haermhimal had only once felt so helpless. And the last time had been on the day of the Calamity. And yet that time, the Captain had somehow managed to drag them all out of the rut of despair regardless and pull off one of their greatest heists yet. 

If only the insane Garlean could concoct a new plan to steal back the heart of their little lizard.

Until then, Haermhimal would do as he has always done as the First Mate of the Songs of the Wind, and that is to keep the things rolling as smooth as they can, despite the crew’s incessant attempts to ruin everything.

“Ye ain’t goin’ to just any party, girl.” Haermhimal admonishes her, “This is the party of the century. All the bigwigs gonna be there, all them fancy Alliances and Monetarists and whatnot. Ya gotta look like ya belong or they’ll be laughin’ at ya. And if they laugh at ya, then we’re gonna hafta fly in an’ kill ‘em all, simple as that.”

“Brynhilde, fetch them nice soaps too!” he calls out, “Hyacinth! None o’ that cheap lavender garbage!”

“Why ya always tyin’ your hair up like this.” he scowls, “Ya hafta let it down loose erry once in a while or it gets all greasy under the hairtie.”

“Can’t fight if I can’t see.” the girl pouts, “And that’s all they want me for anyway.”

Haermhimal draws his trusty scissors and holds the girl’s head still with his hooked hand, refusing to respond or even acknowledge the girl’s depressed mumblings.

“Don’t move...just gonna fix up these bangs o’ yours first…” A few quick snips at the front of her face, and the girl finally looks like she wasn’t raised in a barrel.

“How’s she lookin’, Cap’n?” Haermhimal asks his boss’ opinion as he fluffs out the girl’s hair and let’s the strands settle.

“It’s not fair!” The grown Garlean woman complains, still working through the last dregs of her temper tantrum, “How come she’s the only one invited?! What is up with the  _ nerve _ of those Scions...”

“Well, this here is a celebration of the cooperation between Alliance and Ishgard.” Haermhimal explains, as he sprays some water into the Xaela’s unkempt hair.

“A cooperation that we weren’t real helpful in.”

“What do you mean!? Do you see how much dragon blood is all over my ship?” Kiria gestures at Simonaud hanging outside the cockpit, still scrubbing away at the windows, “We were at the Steps of Faith same as the rest of ‘em!”

“Yes, but you know, we  _ do _ be wanted criminals in Ishgard…”

“Is that debt not sufficiently paid off from saving their stuffy little freezing cold city?” the woman complains, “Those dragonkillers wouldn’t have gone off right if we weren’t there!”

“You mean the dragonkillers we snuck into the hold immediately after using them? When we thought nobody weren’t watching?” Haermhimal replies drily, “Well I’m supposin’ they really were watchin’.”

“Well they might come in handy someday!” The woman justifies her grand larceny, “Those Ishgardians clearly weren’t making good use of them.”

The blonde haired woman lets out a plaintive cry and retreats back to the Captain’s Quarters, “I wanna go to the party toooooo!”

Ciriana watches her Captain cry like a little child not invited to a ball wordlessly.

“Do ya think…?” she begins.

“No.” Haermhimal replies immediately, “ _ You _ ’re the one who’s goin’ to this party,  _ you _ ’re the one who’s gonna have a grand old time rubbin’ shoulders with all them bigwigs and eatin’ their fancy food.”

“Can you imagine the diplomatic disasters that’d happen if Cap’n went in your stead?” he massages his temples with his fingers, “She’d be either end up in prison or be back here with the Sultana in her pocket for ransom and the key to her treasury.

The Warrior of Light shrugs halfheartedly, “Well I ain’t gonna be havin’ much fun there…”

“Soap!”

A bar of soap lands squarely in the girl’s face as Brynhilde arrives, a chest filled to the brim with clothes being dragged along behind her.

“Now I’m thinkin’ that Ishgardian gown we nicked that one time, I’m thinkin’ that might be around yer size…”

The gruff Roegadyn rubs a few fingers against his beard in thought, appraising Ciriana’s dimensions as Brynhilde rummages through the chest dropping all manner of strange stolen fabrics all over the ship’s floor.

He applies some soap to her hair with care, holding up each lock with his hook before performing more delicate maneuvres with his hand. A little rinse of water quickly has her hair shining as lustrous as her scales in no time.

“Ain’t got time for anythin’ special…” he mutters as he works his way through styling her hair and braiding a loop along the side.

“Tadaa!” Brynhilde holds up a brilliant green dress before her, “Doesn’t even smell of blood! Much.”

Haermhimal takes a glance away from his work on Ciriana’s head and quickly shakes his head.

“Nah, it’d fit you though, but Ciri’s a mite bigger...darn, I thought them Ishgardian children weren’t such wee little things…”

“Alphinaud is still a bit shorter than me.” Ciriana muses.

“How’s about that Thavnairian dress then?” The man suggests instead, “That we nicked off of them other pirates in the south?”

Brynhilde produces the garment, to Haermhimal’s delight, “Looks like she’ll fit alright.” 

He ties off a braided lock of Ciriana’s hair and then stands up straight.

“I’mma grab them face paints and brushes, you get her changed, alright, Bryn?”

The girls pull a drape over for privacy as Haermhimal drops into the cargo hold to rummage about.

A decade ago, Haermhimal wouldn’t possibly believe that he would be braiding the Warrior of Light’s hair aboard a Garlean warship as a Sky Pirate.

He had been nothing but a clueless sea pirate, pillaging all day and drinking all night, regaling his friends and crewmates with boisterous tales of adventure. It had been fun in his younger days, and it had been the only way of life he knew in his older days. When he had found that way of life banned and tamed beneath the once savage woman he had known as Captain, he had only been one of many to simply replace his daytime activities with drinking and brawling instead.

The Maelstrom wasn’t for him, with its stuffy uniforms and stuffier rules. That had been clear from the start. When he was offered a position as a Sky Pirate, well, at least it had one word in common with the life he wished for.

First Mate was a position he was not accustomed to, and yet Kiria unhesitatingly gave him that role regardless. Possibly because she recognized the experience that came with his age. Or possibly because she really liked giving people roles and there were no others he fit properly.

In the end, the job ended up being to fill the holes that Kiria left open, of which there were numerous. It takes a lot to keep a crew and ship running and while Kiria is great with finances and supply accounting, she’s remarkably useless in just about everything else.

And yet he followed her with more loyalty than he had ever shown Admiral Merlwyb. Maybe it was just gratitude in his older age for giving him the freedom he had always taken for granted. Or maybe he had just grown attached to this motley pile of idiots.

A younger Haermhimal would have jumped ship immediately upon discovering the Captain’s intent to follow the Warrior of Light into every hellscape she threw herself into. And yet here he was, still going along on this journey that would undoubtedly leave them all dead. Maybe he’s just gone soft.

The Warrior of Light, immeasurable power and martial prowess and all, is nothing but a kid. Only a handful more than twenty summers, picked up from a Ilsabardian jail entirely by accident after a childhood spent far from home. 

This ragtag group of weirdos is the only family she has to rely on, how could Haermhimal abandon her in her time of need? Besides, if the world is really ending like the Scions like reminding everyone, then these were the only people left to him worth dying beside.

“BEHOLD! THE LADY OF FLAMES IN ALL HER SPLENDOUR!”

Brynhilde seems rather happy as Haermhimal ascends from the hold. Taking advantage of the occasion, Brynhilde has dressed herself up as well in the Ishgardian garment. It’s a little loose around just about every limb, but the girl is happy nonetheless, spinning around and letting the skirts flutter.

Haermhimal can’t help but smile at the sight of the small Hyur prancing about as if she were preparing to attend her debutante ball.

Ciriana, on the other hand, has a rather dour mood about her, even though her formal attire fits her almost perfectly. It’s as if she’s only...exisiting, rather than truly living, in the First Mate’s opinion.

“Stand still.” he says as he steps behind the Warrior of Light, deftly threading a needle with one hand, “I can cinch this a little bit…” he mutters as he adds a few quick stitches to the back of the dress.

“And...the face…”

The girl doesn’t even flinch as he passes his brushes over her face, dutifully closing her eye as needed as he goes about his work.

Brynhilde seems excited too, so he gives her a quick application of a few basic techniques as well.

“All done.” He says letting out a deep breath as he adds a final finishing touch on Ciriana’s face.

“Looking good, girls!” W’sidra calls out from behind. Haermhimal has half a mind to give her a good slap with his hook hand, but she approaches with a full length mirror obscuring her body.

“Oh  _ now _ you show up after all the work’s done,” he scowls at the impudent woman, “Didja really think ta send her off in such a roughshod getup?!”

“Eh,” W’sidra shrugs from behind her fortress of glass, “Figured it had to be bad enough to get you to redo it. Looks like it turned out great, didn’t it?”.

Haermhimal helps the Warrior of Light to her feet and W’sidra aims the mirror at her, as if it were a shield from Haermhimal’s wrath.

A slight gasp escapes the girl’s mouth as she beholds her own image. She moves around a little bit as if to be certain that the mirror is indeed her reflection.

“That’s…” she says quietly, holding her hand up to her face and touching her scales to be certain that Haermhimal had not put a mask over her face.

Haermhimal smiles contentedly to himself as he watches the Au Ra examine herself in wonder.

“By Menphina’s fat teats I look like a…” the girl curses in wonder as she searches for a word to describe her image.

“Do a spin, girl!” W’sidra cheers her on from behind the mirror.

Brynhilde takes Ciriana’s hand and twirls her around as if they were dancing in a ballroom and not the cramped corridor of a pirate ship.

For the first time in what has been far too long, the girl lets out a small giggle as she confidently places her feet on the ground and twirls Brynhilde back, taking her on a short jig around the small space.

Haermhimal lets out a hearty laugh upon watching the two junior members of the Songs enjoy themselves. The Warrior of Light’s journey has taken its toll on them all, despite Kiria’s best efforts. He is glad to see them enjoy themselves once more.

“Thanks, Haermhimal.” the girl offers him a shy smile as she keeps looking at herself in the mirror.

A hint of sadness becomes to creep its way onto her face, likely thoughts of the boy sleeping in a tower far, far away. Haermhimal quickly moves to stave off the darkness.

“Make sure ya nick me a new pair o’ fork an’ knives, alright?” he says giving her a pat on the shoulder, “I’ll take that as me payment, alright?”

“Oh, get me one too!” Brynhilde adds, “A bright and shiny gold set!”

“Didn’t you say I wasn’t to be robbin’ the Sultana?” the girl recalls with a frown.

“Eh, they be rich Monetarists up there.” W’sidra scoffs, “Rob them blind, they won’t even notice.”

Haermhimal hits a switch on the wall of the hallway, letting the door to the Waltz slide open to the gates of Ul’dah.

“Well we best not be keepin’ the Alliance waitin’ for their guest of honour.” he offers his arm out to the girl, as gentlemanly as he can manage, “May me noble sir dare offer thine escort to yonder...party?”

The girl giggles again, sporting a smile that Haermhimal has sorely missed.

“Wouldn’t want ya gettin’ no bother on yer way over.”

She places a hand on his arm, at least trying to emulate the way she has seen noble Ishgardian ladies walk. Her success is surprisingly poor for someone who could copy blade techniques perfectly with only a description.

“You all won’t be gettin’ lonely without me?” she asks as they step towards the door.

Haermhimal shrugs, “Don’t you worry about us, we’re gonna go fix some chocobo races in the Ruby bazaar once I drop you off. Just ‘member to keep some samples of the best food for us. Bring us some good meat, ya hear me?”

“Orders received.” she says happily as the two step out of the ship and head for what will finally be a chance for the heartbroken Warrior of Light to heal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time heals all wounds, but getting dressed up by your big Roegadyn dad makes it a little quicker at least.  
> Hopefully this um, party goes off without a hitch...


	11. Fleeting Anthem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Warrior of Light is now fugitive number 1 in Eorzea. The Songs of the Wind formulate a plan to whisk her away to safety.

It was the very moment the Crystal Braves were seen marching upon the Royal Promenade side by side with the Brass Blades that it became apparent something was amiss.

The whispers and hushed secrets from fleeing servants and displaced maids were met with a mix of incredulity and outrage, but little by little, mired in wondrous fleets of fancy and hyperbole, the truth eventually did make its way to the Songs of the Wind.

The Warrior of Light has decapitated, literally and figuratively, the Ul’dahn state and has been arrested.

The Scions of the Seventh Dawn are all dead.

The Monetarists now rule supreme.

Upon hearing of various pieces of the news, the Songs immediately detach themselves from whatever sordid business they had occupied themselves with and return to the Wind’s Waltz with utmost expediency.

Perhaps another time, in another city, in another life, they might have been elated or eager to take advantage of the chaos that spreads through the streets of Ul’dah like wildfire. When the moon had fallen and God of Dragons had razed the planet to the ground, Kiria’s immediate response had been to raid a number of Monetarist vaults. They were no strangers to reacting to horrific geopolitical events with crime. Chaos was only an opportunity for pirates, after all.

However the First Mate’s furrowed brow and hands restless with worry are mirrored across them all.

A few quick kidnappings and violent interrogations of Blade and Braves alike clear the picture up and allow them to unmask the proper truth of the matter.

The Warrior of Light and the Scions have allegedly conspired with Raubahn and poisoned and murdered the Sultana.

The Scions of the Seventh Dawn are all probably dead.

The Monetarists have always ruled supreme and nothing has really changed there other than one of those scheming lalafells being approximately one head shorter.

The Warrior of Light was captured and is on her way to her own execution right now.

Either way, only the final piece of information was relevant to the Songs of the Wind, and swiftly dictated their next course of action.

With little ceremony and without settling their parking bill, the Wind’s Waltz takes off in a hurry to catch up to their crewmate’s execution.

While the Songs of the Wind were no strangers to violence and bloodshed, the majority of their raids rarely left merchants or guards dead. They stole riches and glory first and foremost, lives only if necessary. It was only good business, after all. People were generally more invested in hunting down pirates that killed their friends than those that simply broke a few bones and made off with valuables.

No such mercy or quarter was offered to the group of Brass Blades and turncoat Crystal Braves escorting their prisoners to Halatali. 

With the exception of two, the Songs of the Wind were hardly useful in a fight, despite how intimidating Haermhimal seemed. Eorzeans definitely made good fighters with Disciples of War and Magic alike excelling in the art of combat, the sellswords of the Blades and Braves were no exception to the trend. However in the short and bloody slaughter that took place in the sands of Eastern Thanalan, it became clearly obvious that none could truly compete with Garleans in the art of warfare.

Without hesitation, Kiria ordered the redeployment of the Waltz’s weaponry after more than a year of unuse. There was no clever ploy, no meticulously planned heist or any such customary elegance to the Songs’ operation.

They flew in, strafed the convoy, filled half the prisoners’ escort with bullet sized holes and burned the rest alive. 

It was not a Sky Pirate’s performance with bluster and bravado, but a military pursuit executed with perfect Garlean tactics. 

It felt dirty, to say the least. To the entire crew, even the normally jovial woman who had ordered it. Maybe there had been another way, maybe they could have approached it with a laugh and a smile as usual, and do something ridiculous, like spearing the prison carriage with their new Dragonkiller and reeling it in like a fish. Or putting on disguises and pretending to be new recruits and swapping the prisoners out, or anything.

Kiria dus Sanvis could fearlessly stand in the middle of a Garlean fortress and con her way all the way to the Ultima Weapon and yet all that bravado and confidence seemingly vanished the moment they set out to rescue their little Blade. Maybe they relied on the little scaled girl too much, and couldn’t accomplish their usual exploits without her. Or maybe the idea that she could be contained by a handful of mere mortals was frightening enough that they couldn’t afford to waste time retrieving her.

Or most of all, they all knew how vulnerable the Warrior of Light’s emotional state had been in the past months. The repeated loss of friends she had grown close to, the danger of the positions of those considered to be the saviours of the realm. She had thrown herself into the efforts of saving the world without a thought, and now all that pain and danger she had ignored thus far thanks to her infallible strength was finally catching up to her. 

If the plots of the Monetarists and the greed of the Crystal Braves were going to directly harm their treasured comrade in her most vulnerable time, then the rules of engagement were different. No mercy given, no parley offered.

Haermhimal really must be going soft, if a pile of dead bodies has done so much to unnerve him. The morale of the crew is at its utmost low, even with their dark scaled girl safely returned. Ciriana’s trials and quests had never seemed so obviously targeted at her directly before. Maybe the crew is beginning to realize the targets painted all over the hull by virtue of being the home of the most powerful entity on the continent.

Haermhimal has lived most of his life running from something or other, whether it be Garlean anti-pirate ships, or other pirate ships, or the scary waittress from the bar who kept hitting him with brooms to get him to pay his tab.

And yet to harbour the alleged murderess of the Sultana herself is a crime beyond any other before. There would be no safe harbour for the Waltz to be found anywhere in Eorzea.

“Three days flyin’, I reckon.” W’sidra says, sitting crosslegged in her seat and scanning the dials and meters at the helm, “Can’t quite make it that far without a pit stop or two.”

The entire ship shudders for a moment after a minor explosion down the hall. A high pitched shriek is heard from the Engineer’s panicked workspace. They had been a little careless when picking up their wayward Blade and ceruleum engines were not particularly fond of being hit by errant fire spells.

“Maybe need one pit stop a little sooner rather than later.” she guesses.

“I would really appreciate setting the ship down at once and extinguishing these flames  _ before _ we embark on another journey!” Simonaud offers his opinion from down the hall.

“Well first we prolly hafta deal with that…” Haermhimal grimaces, poking a thumb back at the engine.

“Forget where we’re goin’ after this,” W’sidra shakes her head, “We need to find someplace to set ‘er down for a breather.”

“Resupplyin’ and repairin’ in Ilsabard?” Haermhimal grimaces, “Ship’s too old to pull a fast one on them patrols no more, seems risky…”

“Think we can get ourselves a favour from the Admiral?” W’sidra asks skeptically, “It ain’t like the kid don’t have friends in Limsa either, right? They got tons of convicted pirates runnin’ around, don’t they?”

Kiria shakes her head, “Limsa’s hands would be tied if the Syndicate comes knocking for their Sultana’s purported murderess. Merlwyb can’t let the Alliance fall apart for the girl.”

“Ya kill a primal for ‘em and they won’t stick their necks out even a little for you in return…” W’sidra laments, “Kid’s got a rough life.”

“We could always head back to Ilsabard.” Haermhimal suggests weakly, “Sneak into an outpost and have ‘em fix us up.”

Kiria shakes her head, “After the Praetorium business, they’ll recognize the Waltz too easily. Her model’s too old, and they’re looking out for us in particular…”

“All them citystates coming after us here in Eorzea for murderin’ the Sultana, and all of Garlemald ready to gun us down if we go showin’ our faces in Ilsabard” Haermhimal summarizes, “We gotta pick one or the other to deal with.”

“If I might interject with a suggestion in-” Alphinaud’s words barely make it out before the three Songs snap at him.

“Shut up!”

“You’ve done enough, lad.”

“Get back to the cargo hold or the only passage for you on my ship will be strapped to its belly!”

Cowed by the vigorous reception, the boy retreats immediately. As far as the Songs are concerned, he is another one of those Scions. Friends of Ciriana, perhaps, but also a friend who thrust her into this predicament, and likely seeks to continue to use her for his own means.

“All that’s left is Ishgard...back to that frozen hellhole…” the Roegadyn rests his head in his hands and the three of them spend a moment in silence at the idea of returning to their old stomping grounds.

“Don’t ya think handin’ us over to Eorzea is all they gonna do?” W’sidra says skeptically “LIke that Ser Aymeric were there at the party himself.”

Kiria shakes her head.

“The fight at the Steps of Faith was an anomaly, the overtures of a friendly relationship, not a proper alliance yet.” she says, her political education coming in handy for once, “Extradition is quite far down on the list of priorities for something like this. Besides, it’s the Eorzean Alliance that seeks to bring Ishgard into working with them, not the other way around. The Alliance is hardly in a position to make demands of the Holy See.”

“She’s got friends there, no?” W’sidra adds, “All that heretic hunting we did weren’t for nothing.”

“House Fortemps.” Kiria nods, “They’re quite powerful at least. But not powerful enough to shelter pirates who terrorized the Coerthan Highlands for well over a year.”

Haermhimal makes a face and grumbles. “I don’t like how that Haurchefant fella looks at her either…”

W’sidra giggles, a comforting sound in these trying times.

“Heh, you spend enough time stabbing dragons, maybe ya start to grow some secret desires about stabbing lizards another way.”

Kiria gasps with mock offense at the crude joke and Haermhimal scowls at the idea of the knight courting  _ their _ lizard, though he does allow himself a small chuckle.

“By Halone, that sounds like blasphemy to me!” Simonaud’s ash-covered face pops into the cockpit at the mention of his homeland, “It is quite a grievous action to take, to suspect a great house of blasphemy like that.”

“Is that what them heretics do out there?” W’sidra asks jokingly, “Bang dragons and eat snow all day?”

“Ya know our scaled friend ain’t an actual dragon, right?” Haermhimal asks of the Elezen with mild concern

“Oh, but of course.” he says, “However I may have a solution to our dilemma at hand, though it may come with a fair amount of risk...”

Before the man can explain whatever ludicrous plan he has concocted, the strategy session finds itself interrupted by the loud clanging of a door.

“GET OUT!”

The aforementioned lizard’s shrill voice seems to shake the entire ship’s hull, swiftly shutting down any levity growing in the crew’s demeanour.

Alphinaud stumbles out of the door to the crew quarters, as if he were being chased by a monster.

In the doorway, stands the disheveled shadow of the bright young woman who skipped her way out of the door with a brilliant smile just a few hours past. 

The tattered remains of the noble dress she had worn to the party had lost its lustre to grime and barely dried blood and the immaculately made up face she had sported is nowhere to be found beneath a portrait of rage and pain and loss.

“I am  _ done _ with all this!” She cries, denting the wall with a fist.

“No more heroes, no more wars, no more Ascians, it’s all over, I give up. Find another champion to fight your wars for you!”

She pulls a small object from her clothing and then throws a linkpearl hard enough that it bounces right off of Alphinaud’s head and dashes itself to pieces on the walls of the Waltz.

“Come out, you stupid winged sack of shite! Have ya seen enough? Have ya measured my worth yet?”

A small dragon materializes into the hallway out of the nether, flapping its wings gently and peering into Ciriana’s face curiously, obediently responding to her call.

“Mine role appointed is naught but to Watch, Listen and Wait.” The dragon’s calm voice intones.

The girl unceremoniously seizes the pint-sized dragon with a fist and hurls him into Alphinaud as well.

“Well the show’s over. I ain’t worthy of some crystal’s stupid blessing and don’t want it. Go find yourself another Warrior of Light.”

“The title of Champion Hydaelyn hath bequeathed upon thine humble self is not a Gift that can be abandoned.” The dragon begins, but the girl has no patience for his verbosity.

“Well you took it from me, just give it to Alphinaud or whatever. I don’t care. Let him swing blades of light all day, see how he likes fighting his own fights for once.”

“The Blessing within thine body is naught but sealed by mine fang. It-”

“Ciriana!” Alphinaud protests, “The Scions did not give their lives without hope for a brighter-”

“No. More.” she growls at him with anger none have ever seen before in the girl’s eye. “I ain’t ever gonna have anyone else die pointlessly and point their finger at me. Never again. You can have all their hopes and dreams and empty words and carry it on until you die alone in a ditch.”

“I ain’t ever wanted none of this nonsense!” she says, growing increasingly agitated, “Primals, Ascians, Scions, plots and conspiracies and sultanas can all eat shite an’ kill each other for all I care!” 

For a moment, she looks like she’s about to fall apart entirely. Tears stream down her cheeks freely and her voice becomes so small and weak.

“What’s the point of fightin’ for the world if everyone that matters has to die for me to do it?”

Alphinaud’s mouth opens but no words can be found to comfort the lonely girl. He looks upon the hero he has relied on for so long, broken and hurt, and then simply says nothing.

The moment of fragility passes and is quickly overruled by fury.

“So take your stupid blessing, take this godsdamned  _ curse  _ on me and BUGGER OFF!” 

She screams her last words and slams the door behind her.

The Songs simply sit still and slack jawed, looking down the hall as Alphinaud slowly gathers himself up and starts for the ladder back to the cargo hold.

For a precious moment, the boy shows a youth and a fragility ill suited to his normally noble and controlled airs. He looks like he wants to punch a wall and howl in frustration, like he too wishes he could slam a door and retreat from the world. He had lost everything. The world itself is teetering on the precipice of destruction and his mistake had cost him the final embers that would stave off the encroaching darkness.

The resolve in him seems razor thin. No longer the pillar of strength and initiative he had been just a week ago before the Steps of Faith, but a feeble castle of sand, doing its best to appear powerful on the eve of a high tide.

Mercilessly, Kiria addresses him.

“We will let you off once we find some form of safe harbour.” she says without emotion, “If you try to talk to her again, I’ll shoot you first before throwing you out.”

The waves lap at the walls of the castle.

He only manages a nod before silently finding his way back down to the cargo hold.

The group sits silently for a moment before Haermhimal clears his throat.

“So...Ishgard then?”

Kiria nods begrudgingly, “I didn’t think we’d ever go back to that frozen hellscape…” 

“Ya sure that’ll be alright by the lass?” Haermhimal asks quietly, tilting his head towards the slightly bent door.

Kiria sighs, “It’ll probably do her some good. She was fine in the Coerthan Highlands.”

“Still…” W’sidra muses, “The little old fart’s grave is at the old hideout, and she always blamed herself for that. We need a spot of proper relaxin’ for once...”

Haermhimal frowns at the mention of the Third Song of the Wind. The Song that had ended too early and was left in a snowy grave in a hidden corner of the Coerthan Highlands. The man’s death hadn’t been too long ago, and had been what had set off this whole chain of events.

“Well,” Simonaud continues his previous thought, “I was going to suggest taking the Waltz to the Skysteel Manufactory, all the parts and expertise we require can easily be found there.”

“You kidding me?” W’sidra asks, “What, are we supposed to just park in the middle of Ishgard and ask politely for them to refuel us?”

“Why of course,” the Elezen man replies, “Manners are of utmost importance in Ishgardian high society. And I’m sure they’ll be happy to have me return.”

“Didja happen to forget that we’re bloody pirates?” Haermhimal holds his hands up as if giving up on the Engineer’s airheadedness.

“Oh, I’m sure they’ll be quite forgiving of any past transgressions.” he answers, “The justice system in Ishgard is adept at pardoning those with sufficient pedigree and means.”

W’sidra lets out a chuckle while regarding the man’s words.

“Ya know, sometimes I keep forgetting that you’re an actual spoiled noble kid and not just a really exaggerated joke.”

Kiria’s face slowly grows a smile as the gears in her head gradually click into place.

“So you’re saying we have a free ticket through the front gates of Ishgard…” she says slowly.

“Well, free is a bit of an exaggeration,” Simonaud says, remorsefully, “Otherwise I certainly would have suggested it as a reprieve a long time ago, but I suppose our current situation is sufficiently dire. My aunt will almost certainly subject me to one of her awful masquerade parties and her speeches are always such a bore. Please take into account how much personal pain is required on my part in order to provide this shelter for the crew.”

Kiria’s smile grows even further.

“Ishgard it is then.” she says happily, standing up suddenly and pointing forward out the window.

“The Song of the Wind has wandered far and wide, and yet now we return to our old stomping grounds of Ishgard...not in retreat, nay, but in REVENGE!”

She holds her fist towards what she assumes is the north.

“For a fortnight, we shall rest our weary bodies in the hearth of Simonaud’s sanctuary.” she says, “But after that, we rob the Holy See itself! We break into the Vault and make off with all their treasures and the Archbishop’s hat! We will make them regret ever crossing the Songs of the Wind! BWAHAHHAHAHAAAA!”

“So...ya mean to take advantage of Simonaud’s family’s hospitality to rob them…” Haermhimal summarizes skeptically.

“Damn straight!” the woman replies enthusiastically, “We’re bloody pirates after all!”

“Oh that sounds lovely just thinking of how I will be the topic of gossip for ages to come!” Simonaud seems strangely excited at the prospect.

“W’sidra, turn the ship around, we head for the northern mountains!”

“Aye aye, Cap’n!”

“We set out bearing Heavensward!”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof, that was a little harder to write while i was getting excited about the heavensward arc >_<  
> But this should serve as a good enough transition into all the fun to be had in Ishgard.


	12. Judicious Dirge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sky Pirates aren’t exactly welcome within Ishgard’s city walls, but luckily the Songs of the Wind have a way with people.

“When you said they would let us into the city without issue, this was not what I had in mind!”

The Captain hisses loudly at Simonaud as they are finally seated at a large desk. The four members of the Songs of the Wind as well as two remnants of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn are shackled together in steel chains, with an armed guard at either side. 

“You said we were going to go have some tea!” Kiria hisses again, warily eyeing the guard beside her.

“Oh, well the tea is coming up shortly.” Simonaud explains, “You see, they serve a somewhat pedestrian but rather pleasant tea at these, should the deliberations cause our throats to become parched. Far below the fare we might have at my household, but I do say I quite enjoy this particular blend, lower class though it may be.”

The candle-lit stone walls are often described as imposing, impersonal and claustrophobic to most visitors, but the halls of the courtroom feel rather nostalgic for the Elezen Sky Pirate. The crowds seem particularly full today, and most definitely chattier than normal. He can hear his name on their lips, uttered in hushed tones. He wonders if his aunt is in attendance, he can’t spot her even in the booths reserved for the highest of nobility, but then again, his eyes have never been particularly sharp. 

Either way, he expects she should be quite happy with this turn of events. He will be the talk of the town for at least a week, and she will not miss the opportunity to enjoy the limelight. She is probably planning what ridiculous outfit to make him wear when she parades him in front ofher rivals at her next party.

A man dressed in elegant black robes stands at the elevated pulpit at the front of the hall and bangs a gavel, to announce the beginning of the proceedings. The whispers die down quickly into utter silence.

“We are gathered here today, under the watchful gaze of the Fury, to ascertain the guilt of a number of souls in a criminal trial! Petitioners, step forward please!”

Two members of the Heavens’ Ward stand at the desk on the other side of the hall. Simonaud arches an eyebrow at the high profile accusers they find before them today. He did not think his trial would be conducted by the Heavens’ Ward themselves. It might cause some complications.

“Ser Grinnaux - for the benefit of all here today, I would ask you to enumerate the charges leveled against the accused.”

A dark skinned man dressed in the brilliant white and blue armour of the Heavens’ Ward steps forward to the accuser’s pulpit.

“I, Ser Grinnaux de Dzemael, brother of the Heavens’ Ward…”

A few cheers are let out from the crowd and quickly hushed. Grinnaux has always been rather popular with the young ladies of the nobility.

“I do testify that the accused sitting at the bench yonder are guilty of a variety of crimes including in no particular order: Robbery, piracy, impersonation, assault, murder, public indecency, arson, theft of military equipment and last but not least, HERESY!”

A loud collective gasp is let out by the audience, and, as is customary, the High Adjudicator bangs his gavel once more to silence them.

“Public indecency?” W’sidra asks with an arched eyebrow, “The rest yeah, but when were we ever anything other than-”

“That time ya mooned the Archibishop.” Haermhimal reminds her, eliciting a chuckle from Kiria.

“When did I do that?” the woman asks sadly, “Why can’t I remember doing something so awesome?”

“You were drunk and we saw some big speech going on at Falcon’s Nest.” Kiria explains, “Was quite the success, if I do so say myself.”

W’sidra giggles quietly, “We’re all going to die here today, aren’t we.”

“Absolutely.”

“Ain’t no doubt about that.”

“You needn’t worry.” Simonaud assuages his comrades, “I am quite an experienced litigator, and we have a large advantage that our opponent is neither familiar with the intricacy of Ishgardian law, nor aware that I am seated as his opposition.”

“What kind of engineer is also an experienced litigator?” Kiria asks skeptically.

“Well, I am a lawyer.”

“Wait, what?”

“What by the the Twelve was you doin’ in the Skysteel Manufactory when we kidnapped ya, ya big oaf?”

“Well, I was the head accountant at the Manufactory for quite a few years.” he explains, “Engineering has always been quite the hobby of mine, though. My internship on the Waltz has been quite the educational experience.”

The other three Songs of the Wind stare at him incredulously as the proceedings continue.

“I do declare that I did indeed witness that young man, and that woman consorting with HERETICS!”

Ser Grinnaux’s accusations ring loudly through the hall, eliciting a wave of excited titters through the crowd.

“A powerful condemnation from the noble Ser Grinnaux de Dzemael.” The Adjudicator intones solemnly, “Let the accused, step forward.”

“You needn’t worry.” Simonaud tells his friends as he stands up, making sure to rattle his chains loudly.

“Sky Pirates, as you have named yourselves,” the man says, acting as if he doesn’t recognize Simonaud, a thoroughly polite tactic, even as Ser Grinnaux spits on the formality of tradition by daring to look surprised ahead of the appointed time on the other side of the court.

“Do you, sir, take it upon yourself to speak to the defense of your co-conspirators?”

“I do.” the Engineer answers.

“State your name, and your plea of culpability or innocence.”

“My name is…” the whole hall holds its breath in suspense.

With a flip of his hair, as if his face weren’t already readily visible or identifiable, he speaks.

“SIMONAUD DE DZEMAEL!” he roars triumphantly. 

The entire court falls into disarray. Cheers and exclamations are loosed loudly, a number of ladies in the audience faint from the shock. Ser Paulecrain from the accusers’ desk declares that this must be impossible.

The Adjudicator himself takes an excellent step back as if he were physically blown back by the force of the startling revelation.

“Simonaud de Dzemael! The long lost scion of the main Dzemael family!” he exclaims dramatically, striking a pose of extreme surprise and almost terror.

Simonaud waves pleasantly to his cousin at the other side of the courtroom.

“Nice to see you again, cousin, how has your mother been?”

The shock in his cousin’s eyes transform into anger for some reason. Maybe Simonaud’s appearance is interfering with his plans in some way.

He turns back to address the court.

“Would you truly see a true son of the Fury bound and chained like a common rat!?” he asks of the hall, and they respond with a litany of boos and a few choice pieces of rotten produce tossed at the guards, who hurriedly unlatch his manacles and bring him a proper chair.

“A spot of tea would be pleasant as well, thank you.”

Dutifully, a knight hurries over with a pot and some cheap ceramic.

Simonaud lets the low quality tea’s aroma waft into his nose, warming up his soul. Cheap, but nostalgic regardless. He sips it gently and sighs with content.

“By the Llymlaen’s ass what is going on in this madhouse…” Haermhimal mutters, watching the scene unfold before him with utter bewilderment.

“There is naught to worry about.” Simonaud tells him reassuringly, “There is no way they will hang me at the gallows like a pirate now that my identity is revealed.”

“Yes, but what about the rest of us?” 

Simonaud hesitates and cocks his head.

“Oh.” he says, pausing before taking a sip of his tea, “I hadn’t quite thought about that part yet.”

“Order!” the Adjudicator shouts, banging his gavel enthusiastically, “Order in the court!”

“Do you think those two will be quite alright without us?” Kiria asks, thinking of the two girls they left behind at the Forgotten Knight.

“They’ll pick themselves back up, I’m sure.” Haermhimal says, with the hopeful resignation of a man looking upon his end, “It’ll hurt them alrigrottht, but they’re kind souls, the two of ‘em. They’ll take care of each other.”

“Oh...you had to leave the two capable fighters behind...a trial by combat seems out of the question…” Simonaud murmurs, “...not against knights of the Heavens’ Ward…”

Slowly, the crowd quiets down as the revelation of the return of the wayward scion of the Dzemael family sinks into the minds of all those in attendance.

“So you, Simonaud de Dzemael, will stand in defense of these...pirates?” the Adjudicator speaks questioningly, admittedly confused by his decision.

Simonaud admits that it is certainly unheard of for a noble to defend brigands and whatnot. The poor and downtrodden existed to be blamed for the crimes of those of nobler pedigree after all.

His experience in court had been entirely dedicated to defending young lordlings and ladies for some atrocity committed on the battlefields. A few villages razed and their people put to the sword could easily be explained away by way of complaining about the duties and pressures of life as a noble, while all crimes could be safely pinned on the underlings who could be swiftly decapitated before anything so unsavoury such as the truth might come out.

Nevertheless, he was a Song of the Wind, the Canon of Skysteel, as Kiria had poetically named him. A narrow escape is very much the Sky Pirate’s way, but one performed at the cost of the lives of the crew is very much not part of the code.

He needed something extravagant. Daring. Climactic. A song that would be sung at every party for years to come, not just the gossip of the week.

“That is correct.” he answers, causing another hum of whispers and gossip through the crowd, “I shall expound on the...misunderstanding at hand in due course.”

He can see his cousin glaring daggers in his direction, however he seems not to be angry with him, but rather focusing his gaze on Alphinaud instead. Perhaps he had some grievance with the last of the Scions.

“It is known that the House of Dzemael is deeply and utterly committed to the fight against heresy in all its forms.” Simonaud begins, taking a step past the bench and into the centre of the hall as if it were a stage.

“It seems that in the depths of our journey against blasphemy, some might have thought us the blasphemers themselves! It is without a doubt, that my crew...that is, my servants and I have worked deep within the snows to root out the villainy that is heresy, some may very well suspect us to be in the so-called cahoots with the heretics themselves.”

He turns to address the crowd.

“Surely you must remember the battle at the Steps of Faith, when all hope seemed lost and the horror known as Vishap came knocking at the gates of Ishgard itself!”

A murmur crawls through the crowd as some remember the battle barely a week past.

“It is with great urgency that we abandoned our quest to lay heretics low, and flew to defend Ishgard’s hallowed gates ourselves, unleashing dragonkillers to stop the horrid beast in its track!”

“Hey I remember you lot! You stole the dragonkiller off the eastern tower!”

“Yeah! And three bloody cannons!”

Simonaud had never known defending commoners was supposed to be this hard.

“Oh bollocks.”

He quickly puts a hand to his mouth out of shame for cursing.

“Simonaud de Dzemael…” the Adjudicator says slowly, “Do you have a defense for these thefts of military property?”

“Well, at times it is important to requisition materials for…” his voice trails off as the Adjudicator glowers at him.

Normally he could basically say anything he wanted and the Adjudicator would let his client off scot free. Maybe that was because he only ever defended rich noble kids. Law for commoners seemed so unnecessarily difficult at times.

He looks to Kiria who very clearly threatens his life with just her eyes.

He gulps and wipes at the cold sweat beading on his forehead.

“I demand a trial by combat.” he says suddenly and loudly.

The Adjudicator legitimately gasps.

“The Fury alone has the right to judge my...servants, no mortal may claim that right.”

“That is uh…” the Adjudicator looks from the accusing side to the accuser’s, and then looks up at the crowd, who have gone eerily silent. A large number of them turn to look at someone towards the back. Presumably Simonaud’s aunt and guardian.

Ser Grinnaux and Ser Paulecrain get to their feet, bearing vicious grins.

“Indeed, allow us to leave the decision of the culpability of these foreigners to Halone!” Ser Grinnaux declares, pulling out an enormous and particularly violent looking battleaxe.

“You don’t happen to believe that Ciriana might be gracing us with her timely presence by any chance, do you?” Simonaud asks worriedly.

Kiria lets out a sigh, “Great. We’re going to die in a duel with the Knights of the Heavens’ Ward instead of at the gallows. I guess it’s a wee bit better…”

“Brynhilde...if somehow you’re listenin’...make sure you take care of Ciri, this is gonna hurt you too but she ain’t ever been hurt like this before…”

“Oh man, I ain’t ever fought for my life ‘afore, all swords and daggers, I’m gettin’ excited!”

“I alone shall face the accuser in this trial!” Simonaud shouts, his desperation showing in his voice.

“Have ye ever even lifted a blade ‘afore ya scrawny bastard?” Haermhimal definitely does not give him a vote of confidence.

A significantly more concerned rumble goes through the crowd, and the concern is mirrored on the Adjudicator’s face.

“Very well...it shall be Ser Grinnaux de Dzemael standing against Lord Simonaud de Dzemael in a trial by combat…?” the Adjudicator looks into the audience, clearly uncomfortable with what’s going on in front of him.

Ser Grinnaux starts to laugh in his corner, eagerly giving his battleaxe a few practice swings.

“You would not ask two brothers to fight!” Simonaud declares loudly, “And thusly is it only correct that Ser Grinnaux abstain from combat, lest our blood relation and shared history stay my blade in contradiction to Halone’s will!”

Grinnaux’s face quickly transforms from glee to horror.

“I-I nominate Ser Paulecrain as my second, then!” he says quickly.

“That is not allowed, Ser Grinnaux.” The Adjudicator says coolly, seemingly content that he now had a way out of his predicament, “Ser Paulecrain is registered as co-accuser and thusly cannot serve as a second in this duel. Your second was already determined previously, and that is your squire.”

A young Elezen boy hardly a head taller than Alphinaud scrambles over to Ser Grinnaux, equally bewildered at the turn of events.

The man offers the child a few growls before pushing him towards the centre of the hall, with a a shortsword in hand.

“Who’s your money on?” W’sidra asks, leaning forward in her seat, “I’d bet if that kid only had a fork, he’d still beat Simonaud.”

“I don’t like ta wager when the man what’s representin’ our lives is the clear underdog.” Haermhimal replies forlornly.

“It’s not an issue.” Simonaud says confidently, “I haven’t lost a duel before.”

“I find that hard to believe…” 

He smiles back at his friends comfortingly, “I had hoped to never have to show you extreme violence from an elegant man such as myself, but I suppose this vicious side of me is needed today regardless.”

Simonaud steps forward and holds his hand out as a servant rushes over, carrying a rather light looking shortsword to him, 

The High Adjudicator steps forward and raises his hand grandiosely.

“Oh Halone, render unto us Your Judgement! Raise up the righteous, and cast down the wicked!”

With those words, the duel of the century of which songs will be sung until Ishgard’s last ember begins.

“I am Simonaud de Dzemael!” he declares, loudly, holding his blade before his face, “The Fourth Song of the Wind, the Canon of Skysteel! Prepare to face justice!”

Simonaud manages to take an aggressive step forward, but the young Elezen man before him is quicker.

He rushes forward, his body but a blur and his blade but a flash of light as it cuts through the air, intent on opening Simonaud’s throat. For a moment, lasting approximately three seconds, it slows to a stop, mere ilms away from its mark, allowing Simonaud just barely enough time to deflect the blow with his own blade.

“Oh, bother…” he curses as the impact of the collision sends his own blade fumbling out of his hands.

“Aaaah!” The squire exclaims, quickly dropping his own blade dramatically upon seeing Simonaud’s blade fall. “My lord’s power...so vast it is, that mine own sword arm trembles!”

Simonaud quickly scrambles for his blade as the squire rushes for his own at a snail’s pace.

“Surrender, knave!” he shouts, holding his blade a safe distance away from the boy’s neck.

The boy looks to his master, who is busy applying a hefty dose of his palm to his face.

“I surrender!” the boy shouts loud enough for the entire room to hear.

“The Fury has spoken!” The High Adjudicator announces, “Simonaud de Dzemael, your servants and you are acquitted of all charges!”

“Blessed are we who receive of Her wisdom and see justice wrought by Her divine hand! Petitioners, accused - go forth in peace.”

The crowd erupts in cheers as Simonaud returns to his seat, letting out a deep breath from the exertion.

“What the bloody hells was…” Haermhimal watches him return unscathed with a look of true bewilderment.

“I’ve still got it!” Simonaud declares triumphantly, rubbing his sore muscles, “I am an undefeated dueling champion after all, I do say I could best Ciriana herself if I were to apply myself.”

“Twelvedamned nobles…” W’sidra mutters, “They’re too scared to harm his fancy ass, due to the political ramifications, which results in this...farce.”

The guards unshackle both Scions and Songs and shuffle away, leaving the pirates scot free and absolved of all crime.

“Very well.” Simonaud says, stepping away from the others as parts of the crowd begin to descend upon him to celebrate his glory, chanting his name like the hero of an epic battle.

“It has been an honour flying with you, Captain Kiria dus Sanvis.” he says, holding his hand to his heart and bowing slightly.

“What?” the woman says, blinking with surprise.

“I’m afraid my return to Ishgard has started a chain of events I have long put off that are now out of my control.” he says sadly as he looks up and spies his aunt, her face hardly pleased as she descends towards him.

He feels his throat catching a little and a little bit of water seeking its way out of his eyes, but he controls himself regardless.

“Please do take care of Ciriana, I’m ashamed to say I have no words that can truly heal her, but surely with the company of her friends she will recover. I am sorry to deliver this additional blow to her, now of all times. I thank you with all my heart for the freedom you allowed me to taste. I will continue to dream of the blue skies forevermore.”

“What in the name of blue sky is he talking about Haermhimal?” Kiria asks her First Mate.

“I reckon he’s tryin’ ta say he be quittin’ the crew.”

“It is not by choice.” he says morosely, “The day you kidnapped me to repair the Waltz was the happiest day of my life, but alas, the the responsibilities of those that are born to nobility is-”

A thick tree-trunk sized arm crashes into Simonaud’s stomach as Haermhimal swiftly scoops him onto his shoulder like a sack of popotoes.

“By Halone’s sweaty armpits what are you-” A horrific curse escapes Simonaud’s mouth as the First Mate starts hurrying for the door.

“Rule one of Sky Pirating!” Kiria shouts as the lot of them start making a break for it, “No man left behind!”

Despite Simonaud’s protests, or the angry commands of the Duchess de Dzemael, the Songs of the Wind quickly make their getaway, fleeing the Tribunal with a twofold prize. Their freedom and the greatest Engineer alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little messy, but we're off to a start with our adventures in Ishgard!


	13. Furious Elegy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While the rest of the crew is out litigating for their lives, the Warrior of Light attempts to rest and recuperate at the Forgotten Knight, but Ishgard is a bit of a rowdy place.

The bone biting chill of Ishgardian air sneaks its way even into the safest of shelter. The memories the cold bring with it are far from pleasant.

The first friend, Ciriana had ever lost. The first funeral she had ever attended. The cold and lifeless form of the Third Song of the Wind, silenced forevermore.

“FLAME SHALL DEVOUR ALL BUILT BY MAN! CIVILIZATION SHALL BE REDUCED TO ASH BEFORE THE MIGHT OF THE ALL CONSUMING POWER OF THE INFERNO!”

Brynhilde’s maniacal ravings belie the gentle manner with which she lights a second candle and places it on the nightstand beside Ciriana’s bed.

“Thanks…” she mumbles, buried deep within the blankets.

She takes in a halting breath through her nose and lets it out slowly, feeling the last dregs of her most recent bout of sobs and tears relinquish their hold on her.

The events of the day past still swirled through her mind. The Sultana’s death, Raubahn’s public rage and of course, the Scions’ flight from the scene. 

If only they had let her fight. She knew things were not that simple, that there were plans and political maneuverings and things she did not understand. 

The Warrior of Light must not be a villain, Y’shtola had said. Slaughtering the entirety of the Brass Blades was not on the table.

And so Ciriana had done as she was told, and ran. Papalymo and Yda were the first to stay behind. Then Y’shtola herself and Thancred. Then even Minfilia, who seemed about as useful in a fight as a decomposed eft carcass turned to face the danger while Ciriana  _ ran _ .

She should have fought. She should have turned herself from the beginning and torn them to pieces. Ten, fifty, a hundred, she could have found narrow enough hallway and slaughtered every last one of them and then ran back into the banquet hall and taken the head of every one of those traitors that had wronged them.

But instead, she trusted her friends. She trusted their judgement, she trusted their assurances that all would be well, that getting her out was most important and this was the result.

The girl sniffles and hugs the tear-soaked pillow closer to her face. What right did they have to abandon her like this, demanding that she carry on the torch? Did they know what that would do to her? When even after all the sacrifice, they had found themselves surrounded and captured regardless. She hadn’t even put up a fight when Ilberd, a man she had once thought a friend, clasped her arms in iron and sent her on to her death.

The Scions had died for nothing. And she was the one to blame. For making the choice to trust them.

She felt abandoned, betrayed, regretful that she listened to them in the first place, regretful that she even chose to help on that one ill fated escort into Amal’jaa territory that led to her being discovered as the Warrior of Light. She had never wanted any of this.

Freedom and blue skies was what Kiria had promised her all those years ago, and that was all Ciriana Haragin had ever needed. The Sky Pirate, Ciriana had a rough enough life already. Attempting to be the Warrior of Light nothing but goodwill and a desire to help those before her had been too greedy.

If the kindness she had offered to the world in her travels had been repaid with this fate, then she was done with it all. She would go back to her old simple life. She would be no hero, she would be no Warrior of Light. Just a simple Sky Pirate, making her way through her life like any other criminal scum, pursuing her Captain’s dream and nothing else. No more Ascians, no more primals, no more world saving. It’s clear the world doesn’t want her help anyway.

Five candles now flicker on the nightstand, and Brynhilde continues to light more.

“Oh, that’s a bit much, ain’t it?” she says, mildly concerned about the rate of candle lighting the small Hyur woman is executing.

The youthful looking woman looks forlornly at the bundle of candles she still has in her hand but dutifully puts them back into the basket.

“Farewell unborn sparks…” she mourns for the flames that would not be, “May you someday rage against all creation, and render all unto dust…”

A commotion begins to grow in the Brume, one easily heard through the thin wooden walls of the cheaper rooms of the Forgotten Knight.

Eager to protect the flames she did manage to set, Brynhilde locks the windows and pulls the drapes closed.

The fire addicted woman pulls herself into the bed alongside Ciriana and hugs her tightly.

“Heat is but a pale imitation of the glory that is the inferno…” she mumbles as she buries her face into the Au Ra’s hair.

Ciriana allows herself a small smile at the comforting touch of her dear friend and settles down and closes her eyes to sleep.

She has her own family, who she can trust to believe in her just like she believes in them. There are no plots, no hidden agendas, no important political ramifications that need to be considered before stabbing people. They are Sky Pirates, the Songs of the Wind, and life is simple.

The commotion outside grows louder, and the distinct clang of steel can be heard loudly echoing off of the stone walls.

Ciriana grumbles a little bit, and simply shifts her head over, padding her horns with pillow to keep her from picking up the sounds.

“Ugh...such weak blows…” she mumbles as she ascertains the nature of the ongoing scuffle from the sounds.

Two spears, an axe and a sword. Against what sounds like a large blade. They’re all in heavy armour so they’re all moving so painfully slowly. It’s almost embarrassing to listen to.

The fight continues, giving her something to pay attention to, but also keeping her from the nap she sorely needs.

The room itself shakes violently as someone is driven up against the wall and at that point, Ciriana is fed up.

“Ah, the flames of destruction are but children!” Brynhilde protests as Ciriana marches up to the window and throws them open. The Hyur woman manages to successfully shield her fire babies in time with a simple manaward.

“Hey!” Ciriana yells, sticking her head out of the comforting warm room and into the icy air of Ishgard, and roars with a fury far beyond any dragon Ishgard has ever seen.

“Quiet down, ya pile o’ idiots!”

The fighting stops for a moment, as the pile of idiots, through natural battle convention, cease all hostilities to look up at the irate Xaela.

Four Temple Knights stand surrounding a fifth man dressed in black armour, their weapons drawn and raised in defensive positions despite advancing, as if cornering a wild beast.

Two shining crystalline orbs the colour of the purest water meet Ciriana’s own golden eye. It takes her mind a moment to comprehend what she is seeing, but all irritation in her face is immediately replaced with a sense of wonder and curiosity.

Lustrous black scales darker than the night itself, hair a pale silver shining forth from a canvas of darkness like a full moon, eyes the frosted blue of that midnight moon’s reflection upon the waters of the night. The man swinging that clunky black greatsword like a child is one of her own people. A child of Nhaama. An Au Ra, a Xaela specifically, a people she has not seen since she was too young to hold a sword.

“Oh...hello.” she manages, awkwardly waving as if they were the only two people waiting in line at the bank for far too long, “Weather is...cold, today...ain’t it?”

Her mouth moves on autopilot. The past year of adventuring hasn’t done much for her social skills, beyond teaching her topics for small talk.

“Indeed that is true.” the man says slowly, the bewilderment in her eyes mirrored by his own, “Cold, that is. It’s cold. Not colder than usual. But cold. I take it you are new to Ishgard?”

“Worry not, fair maiden!” A particularly zealous Temple Knight declares without sparing her much of a glance, “This thief shall be executed shortly and we shall be on our way once justice is done!”

“Your justice is a blight upon the world, scum!” the man growls back at his attackers, his attention refocused onto the small swarm of Knights intent on separating his life from his body.

“Oh, so you’re a thief?” Ciriana asks, her interest further piqued by the additional common ground they shared.

“Only from the perspective of unjust laws.” he spits, addressing his words more towards the men in front of him.

He raises his massive two handed broadsword in an aggressive stance, prepared to defend himself from another attack.

“Fury guide our blades to justice! Charge!” the men below roar and rush the man in black armour, who swings wildly with his blade, fending off multiple attacks thanks to the massive reach and power his weapon offers him.

Ciriana pouts as her conversation is rudely interrupted.

“I’m going to be a moment.” she tells Brynhilde before quickly leaping out of the window without hesitation.

The frigid Ishgardian air is a shock to her body, and she feels her limbs responding stiffer than normal, but based on the quality of these Temple Knights it is unlikely to be a cause for concern.

She crashes into the swordsman feet first, connecting her bare feet against the man’s chestplate, knocking him down with the momentum of her fall.

She snatches his weapon out of the air as she rolls off of him, giving it a few practice swings as she stands.

She sticks out her tongue in disappointment at the weapon’s poor balance and lack of maintenance.

“Assaulting a Temple Knight is a crime punishable by-grrrgh.”

The axeman’s sentence is cut short by a flash of light streaks through his throat. His mouth continues to move as he tries to speak, but the words escape instead out the front of his neck along with a small fountain of blood. Not the extravagant gush of blood one might have if she cut a little deeper. If Ishgardian chirurgeons are any good, he should only be condemned to whispering for a month or so.

From above, Ciriana couldn’t really recognize how tall the man was, but now that she’s in front of him, even in his low battle stance, she can really see how massive he truly is.

She had thought her memory of Xaela physiology skewed by her memories of the Steppes, what with being from a time when she stood no taller than a lalafell. Yet even now, this man is easily multiple heads taller than her. Yugiri did say that Ciriana is on the short end of the scale, even for Auri women.

“That armour seems a bit clunky for some effective thievin’,” she muses, sizing him up, “Is that why you got caught?”

“I am no thief.” He snarls, deflecting a spear and offering a powerful counterblow in return, smashing the wielder aside in punishment for underestimating his blade’s reach. “I am a knight!”

“Those horns!” one of the remaining Temple Knights exclaims in fear, “She’s an abomination too!”

Ciriana frowns at the insult, one she’s not entirely unaccustomed to.

“Rawr!” she does her best to put on a scary face and motions threateningly at the two men, neither as enthusiastic to fight a round more even than four on one.

“Avast, foul beast!” the axeman shouts, pumping himself up in preparation for the moment he becomes the hero he has always dreamed of, “Today is not the day Ishgard falls to the Horde! Not while I stand!”

“Then I will break you here and now!” Ciriana’s new Xaela friend roars as he leaps high into the air, crossing the distance between them in a second and bringing his blade down with all his strength.

An enormous clang echoes throughout the entire Brume and the impact threatens to shake the Forgotten Knight off of its foundations. And yet the axe haft holds true, an impressive feat demonstrating the quality of Ishgardian steel, but the poor man falls to his knee, and with his balance goes the last defense that Ishgard has against the Dravanian Horde.

“Die you monster of heresy!” The final spearman lunges for the black armoured man with perfect form, the tip homing in directly on his throat.

He almost makes it, before his legs give out and he falls to his knees. He didn’t even notice Ciriana’s movement.

Confusion is his only expression as Ciriana shakes the blood on the tip of her sword onto his face.

“F-Foul witchcraft!” he cries, “She’s taken my legs!”

“I’m sure it’ll heal up quick,” she disagrees, tossing the blade aside irreverently, “It’s much neater to stitch than a proper dragon’s bite.”

She spins her body and lands a kick square in the lone axeman’s chest, knocking the breath out of him, his axe out of his hands, and his face away from the offered aesthetician services of the menacing black blade.

“You would spare those who would have you tortured and murdered if they were in your place?!” the man snarls, training his blade onto the immobile spearman on his knees.

The young man, to his credit, only soils himself a little when looking down the massive block of metal and into the angry eyes of a Xaela.

He begins to mumble a prayer, rather than choosing to beg for mercy.

“Eh,” Ciriana shrugs indifferently, “I don’t think anyone will ever be in my place.”

The man lets out a long breath before withdrawing his blade and holstering it back onto his back.

“It would be dishonorable to take lives spared by another.” he says quietly, letting the anger that drove his blade slowly subside.

“Hachoo!”

As the thrill of the fight fades, if that could even be called a proper fight, Ciriana grows acutely aware of the extreme lack of heat around her body, and the sensation of her feet slowly freezing directly to the ice cold stones she’s standing on.

Her bare legs and feet gently remind her that she didn’t take the time to put her boots on before jumping out the window.

The black knight’s eyes watch carefully as the defeated gather up their things and help each other on their way out of the Brume as the peanut gallery begins to gather up to watch.

“They’ll be back with more.” he says broodingly, “There is no reasoning with zealots, nor any mercy to ever be received in return for mercy given.”

He turns back to her once the knights vanish into crowds and then his frosted demeanour seems to...pause.

“...Hi.” He says, his furrowed brow and furious gaze giving way to wonder and interest.

“Hi.” Ciriana answers, uncertain how to politely broach the topic she really wants to talk about. She holds a hand up stiffly and wiggles it about, not quite remembering how to wave.

An incredibly uncomfortable silence goes unattended between them as they simply stare, taking in each other’s form.

“Hachoo!” physiology thankfully ends the stalemate as the famous Ishgardian winter seeps deeper into Ciriana’s bones.

“...your legs look nice. COLD! I mean cold!” He stammers, “We’d best get you indoors!” 

Hiding his embarrassment, he strides forward and opens the door to the Forgotten Knight.

“I see you are not from Ishgard,” he says once he closes the door, “And I do not recognize you from my clan. Nevertheless, it warms my heart to find a kinswoman in these lands nonetheless.”

“You’re very tall…” Ciriana says aloud, looking up at his face with wonder.

The man doesn’t seem to know how to respond to the observation.

“I would recommend steering clear of the Temple Knights.” he warns, “Ishgard is not a land friendly to the foreign and people like us are considered more Dravanian than anything else.”

The pained expression on the man’s face is quickly washed away with the cool mask barely keeping a lid on his fury he seems to wear most often.

A touch of sympathy rolls through Ciriana’s heart. However the man has come to live in a place as dangerous as this, it could not have been a pleasant tale.

“My apologies, but it seems you have caught me in the middle of business that can ill afford to wait.” He says, turning back to the door, and offers what seems like the man’s first attempt at a smile in his entire life, “There is much I would talk to you about. I will have my companion come here and find you, I promise I won’t be long after.”

Ciriana pouts impatiently but simply nods as the man runs off out the door.

“Oh, I’m Ciriana!” she shouts after him as the door closes, “Ciriana Haragin!”

There is no reply, he must have hurried off too quickly.

She isn’t certain what a lone Xaela knight might be doing in Ishgard of all places, but then again, he likely has the exact same reaction to seeing her here as well. ‘Not friendly’ to foreigners is likely the greatest understatement of the century.

“You seem...happier.” Brynhilde notes as Ciriana returns for her boots, “Did you bring the words of flames into the living and witness them consume all they touched?”

“I met someone!” she answers happily as she tugs a boot on, “A Xaela, in  _ Ishgard _ of all places.”

The small woman interrupts her friend’s dressing and takes her face in her hands, peering right into her eyes for a moment. The small fires in her eyes flicker as she looks her junior over as if examining a chocobo she was going to bet on.

“Too bright.” she mutters to herself, before releasing her hold on the younger woman.

“Don’t get too drunk, you’re too heavy to carry up all those stairs.” she warns as she sits back down on the bed to talk to her lit candles.

The Forgotten Knight may be a rowdy tavern filled with the usual types you might expect around an inn of its quality, but the interesting aspect is that the building is two-tiered, with its upper half opening up to the business area of Ishgard and the lower half opening up in the Brume itself. Despite the diverse clientele, the inn itself is hardly segregated, and Ciriana finds herself seated at a table in a corner, with an assortment of Holy See accountants and receptionists on one side and a handful of what Ciriana is pretty sure a bunch of robbers.

“Have you heard of that heresy trial coming up? Drushenne said it’s going to be  _ the _ event of the century, people spotted the long lost heir to the Dzemael duchy present! How dearly I wish I could be the stenographer there instead of this silly little robbery I’ve got assigned!”

“An’ then oi wuz jus’ like, ‘gut ‘im anyway’, snitches dun git stitches, ‘ey get caskets!”

“Oh, Halone as my witness, I am tempted to sin and skip out on my work to go see the trial. I heard House Fortemps took in a ward as well, and that very ward stands accused of heresy at that trial as well! How can I  _ not _ ? It’s going to be the talk of the town for  _ centuries _ , how could I possibly let such a grand opportunity pass me by?!”

“Well o’ course ‘e got caught. Red handed an’ all the like. Guttin’ the boy right in the middle o’ the living room, wit ‘is share o’ the spoils stickin’ out ‘is pockets. I got meself right out there in a jiffy. Reckon’ they be trialin’ an’ executin’ him today, but ain’t no skin off me back. Just regrettin’ I let ‘im get first pick. Coulda given that ring he called dibs on to me boytoy.”

“People watching?” a derisive voice sneers from before her as a heavy metal boot plants itself on the chair and pulls it out, “Hardly how the Warrior of Light is meant to be passing her time.”

Surprised by her visitor’s sudden appearance, Ciriana instinctively reaches for her dagger, but stops herself from eviscerating the speaker as she spots two horns coming out of either side of the black helmet.

“Oh, you’re like me!” she says excitedly, gesturing at her own similarly shaped and coloured horns.

“I am  _ nothing _ like you.” the woman in black replies harshly as she takes her seat across the table in an almost boorish fashion, “And trust me, I know. I know everything about you already, Warrior of Light.”

Compared to how the Xaela knight held himself, this woman seemed to move like she was brought up on the streets with how casually she leaned against the table.

“Oh, well, I’m Ciriana Haragin, Blade of the Sky Pirate crew the Songs of the Wind!” Ciriana introduces herself cheerfully, “What brought y’all here to Ishgard of all places? The other guy said they might mistake us for Dravanians, sounds a mite dangerous, no?”

The masked woman studies Ciriana’s face for a moment, the shadows cast on her obscured face hide any discerning features even to Ciriana’s eyes, but she thinks she catches a glimpse of a golden limbal ring not too different from her own.

“The name is Fray.” The woman introduces herself, “And I am no stranger to combat and violence. Ishgardians accuse those they don’t understand of heresy. All around us are nothing but cowards and frightened hounds, who would bite the very hand tended to their aid. Ishgard’s broken society is naught but a symptom of the blight that is weakness.”

Taken aback by the woman’s vicious temperament, and by the way her words resonate with her very soul, Ciriana finds herself at a loss for words.

“You who are stronger than any let yourself be led around by the nose into trial after trial and yet you dare weep when the results are not to your liking? You act the spoiled child who knows naught of the world’s unfairness when you yourself have lived nothing but life’s harshest!”

“Th-That’s a little…” Ciriana stammers before the onslaught of soul crushing words hurled at her.

“Freedom and blue skies is all you desire?” the woman sneers at the Songs’ motto, “And yet time and time again you shackle yourself to the destiny of this land without a second thought. Even now, you’ve already discarded and forgotten all that has wronged you, returned to the brainless Weapon of Light you were that brought you so low in the first place!”

“You crave to be the heroine you yourself wished for as a child. You are not free, you will never be  _ free _ until the day you cast aside your weakness!”

The woman pauses as Ciriana shrinks back from the barrage of fury.

“I’ve said too much for our first meeting.” the woman says before standing up from her seat, “We will meet again, Ciriana Haragin.”

Without another word, she vanishes into the crowds of the Forgotten Knight like a shadow in midday.

“I’m...weak…” she mumbles, staring at the empty seat before her.

“H-Hello?” a timid child’s voice yanks Ciriana from her thoughts as a young Elezen girl approaches slowly.

“He said you would have horns like his…that I should find you here and wait…”

Ciriana offers the girl a smile, “Not many with horns like mine in these parts, shall we wait for him here?”

“He’s fighting!” the girl blurts out once she recognizes Ciriana as a friend, “He went after the ones that chased him before, but they brought reinforcements!”

  
So much for sparing those shown mercy by another.

Ciriana’s face twists into an excited grin.

“Oh I do hope this is going to be fun, show me the way!”

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took a while to express what I wanted, but our little Warrior of Light is going to go about most of the events of Heavensward with her new DRK family for the most part, which should give us plenty of time for the rest of the Songs to relax and laze about.


	14. Mechanical Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Songs of the Wind rest a moment at the Skysteel Manufactory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: I don’t actually know enough Dzemael family facts, so all Dzemael characters are completely made up.

“Free. All the repairs you want, I’ll build a Twelvesdamned new airship for you from scratch if I have to.”

Stephanivien gesticulates emphatically as the engineers pore over the Waltz’s state. 

Kiria arches an eyebrow at the man’s offer that is clearly too good to be true.

“I assume there is a hidden price tag somewhere.” Kiria says, crossing her arms ready to haggle as much as she needs to.

“All of us will chip in, anything you want so long as you keep that  _ abomination _ as far away as possible from the Manufactory.”

Kiria scowls, following the man’s pointing, expecting to find a dark scaled lizard at the end of the gaze, but instead finds him pointing at Simonaud de Dzemael instead, who is examining some sort of mechanical water purifier.

“Surely, this would spin faster if we were to…”

“No! Please, I’ve been working on that for months!” a man is on his knees before Kiria’s Engineer, begging him for mercy.

“Not to worry, my knowledge of the mechanical has grown tenfold since my most recent internship,” he says reassuringly as he starts to liberally apply the contents of his toolbox to the device.

“Tenfold of negative knowledge is even worse! This project is important, please, my lord, what are you even doing with that bottle of blood?”

“Just a little trick I’ve learned out in the field...voidsent blood makes for an excellent lubricant...there!” Simonaud says triumphantly as he finishes whatever adjustments he wanted, “I expect the output efficacy to increase by at least a factor of- is that supposed to be on fire?”

“How is it setting the water on fire!?”

“Why is the machine  _ bleeding _ ?!”

Kiria watches the chaotic scene unfold before her dispassionately. Gunfire fills the air as Simonaud’s ministrations appear to also begin attracting demons from the beyond.

His interest piqued by some other nearby unattended contraption, Simonaud wanders away from the scene of the crime and inflicts himself upon someone else’s life work.

“Didn’t you say House Haillenarte runs this place?” Kiria asks, testing her hastily acquired knowledge of Ishgardian house politics.

“It is,” the nobleman sighs, “But the efficiency of the research section of the Manufactory is not a sufficient prize for offending the scion of House Dzemael. We suffer, that their attention may be...diverted. Oh by the Fury’s mercy, we have suffered...”

Kiria nods sagely as they watch Simonaud’s attempt to improve the coffee maker in the kitchen. The resulting slime eats its way right through the glass cup and then sizzles as it dissolves a sizeable hole in the stone floor.

“The past few years since you kidnapped him have been the Manufactory’s brightest since its inception.” Stephanivien admits, “All the resources we put into diverting his attentions to the harmless could finally be repurposed for actual productivity.

The man turns to Kiria, and leans in a little closer “To be honest, if you really don’t want him back, if you could, I don’t know, abandon him on an island off the coast of Ilsabard, I would even find you an actual engineer to replace him.”

“By Halone’s grace, will this labyrinth never end!?”

A woman storms out of the Waltz, holding her head in pain.

“Insanity...Madness...at the ends of the universe, all sense and logic crumbles apart!!” she cries as she stumbles over to Stephanivien. She grips his hand violently, her knuckles turning white with the pressure and looks up at his face with bloodshot eyes.

“Eyes have witnessed terrors beyond the mortal realm. Eyes have seen beyond the infinity and into void. And within the abyss of nightmares, at the root of the world, while searching for truth and they have found nothing.”

A handful of other Manufactory employees arrive to shuttle off the exhausted woman away.

“You had him as your only engineer for how many years again?” he asks Kiria nervously.

“Seven.” she answers, “Though a few people from Garlond Ironworks put some work into it a bit recently.”

“And yet here you stand...alive.” the man muses, putting his hand to his chin as if he is solving a mathematical problem in his head.

A loud trumpet blares throughout the hall, interrupting everything within the Manufactory with its shrill cry.

“Announcing, the Lady Daudelle de Dzemael!” a man dressed like what Kiria can only describe as a basket of grapes shouts with all of his might.

“Oh, it seems we have been discovered…” Simonaud says quietly, stepping away from what would have been a collapsible cooking station but has instead possibly become a sentient automaton.

A handful of servants march in through the front doors and begin sweeping at the floor with brooms before a short red carpet is rolled out.

The trumpet blares again as a perfectly manicured foot in a delicate high heel wrought of glass steps out of the carriage out front. In glides an elegant woman with a demeanour Kiria is well familiar with from the high echelons of the Garlean military.

The Elezen woman sniffs as if the very air of the manufactory offends her and her gaze passes through everyone as if they are as uninteresting as a pile of chocobo leavings.

“Where is she?” the woman’s voice demands respect and obedience, and does not suffer tardiness.

The icy gaze of the tall Elezen woman lands on Kiria, and the red carpet is rolled out further to lead up to her feet.

“A Highlander woman?” she mutters disapprovingly before jabbing a stick into Kiria’s cheek to make her head turn. She almost protests, but she knows what nobles are like. She bides her time instead.

“Not of the worst pedigree though.” 

“My lady Dzemael!” Stephanivien protests, “The Skysteel Manufactory is House Haillenarte property and not-”

“Seven years you’ve been away, dear nephew,” she says, ignoring the Haillenarte son completely, “Most had thought you dead in the Calamity, and yet instead years after your burial, I hear of our sigil being used to request safe passage for…” she looks up and down Kiria’s body, “This.”

“I knew it had to be a woman,” she says with mild irritation, “I simply expected you to have better taste than...this.”

It takes a lot to keep Kiria from strangling the woman to death immediately. Kiria misses being rich and powerful. It let her do this kind of things to others all the time, it’s really much less fun being on the bullied side rather than the bully’s.

“I trust nothing so indiscrete as marriage has been committed?” she looks pointedly at Simonaud, who seems to be somehow completely immune to all the social cues of power and respect the woman commands.

The Engineer is busy hitting a ceruleum rock against an aetheric conduit for some reason. With the luck that has somehow kept him alive all this time, his fingers slip, and the two devices fall to the ground promptly before exploding., leaving him startled but otherwise completely unharmed.

“Oh no, auntie.” Simonaud replies casually as if he had seen her just last week rather than 7 years ago, “However I have learned such marvels and techniques while aboard the Waltz, I daresay my skill as an engineer far outstrips my abilities as a lawyer now.”

“Excellent.” the woman says with a sniff, “You’ll be attending my ball at the end of this week, where your betrothal shall be promptly announced.”

“Betrothal!?” Kiria exclaims loudly, unable to contain herself any longer, “That’s ridiculous, Simonaud is-”

The woman makes an irritated tutting sound before turning back to her.

“Your service is no longer required.” she says dismissively to Kiria, as a servant walks up to her quietly and hands her a fairly large and heavy purse filled to the brim with gil.

“Oh, nevermind.” Kiria says feeling the weight of the purse in her hand.

“Come along, Simonaud, there are many preparations for the masquerade that need be prepared. You’ve gotten too skinny over the years, we’ll need to stop by the tailor on our way back.”

W’sidra stomps up angrily rolling up her sleeves, “You thinkin’ crazy if you think you can just up and steal our-”

“Two?” The woman arches an eyebrow at her nephew, “And a Miqo’te at that. I hadn’t thought you one with tastes for the...exotic.”

An armed guard plants his spear on the ground, barring the way to his mistress as a second coin purse is discreetly handed over to W’sidra too.

“Oh, hot damn!” The woman’s eyes sparkle at the sight of the gold, “Haermhimal! Get over here and cause up a fuss, we’re gettin’ gold for it!”

Simonaud reluctantly steps forward to join his aunt on the red carpet. On their way out, he turns back to face Kiria one last time, and offers a gentle nod of thanks before vanishing out the door to resume his duties as a Dzemael scion.

The servants roll up the carpet swiftly and follow them out.

“Can you get the ship ready to fly by the end of the week?” Kiria asks the Chief Engineer as she tosses the bag of coin up and down.

“Anything to get that monster out of Ishgard.” he promises.

Kiria grins widely as she turns to Haermhimal and W’sidra.

“I hope you two are feeling seductive.” she says, “We’re going to steal a Dzemael heir this week.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're off with our next heist! WoL Ciriana isn't going to have much of a presence here since she's off warding some heavens and whatnot, so hopefully everyone else will have a moment to shine.


	15. Covert Praeludium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Songs of the Wind prepare for their next heist target, the Duchess Dzemael’s prized nephew, Simonaud de Dzemael. Some legwork is needed prior to the heist.

“Oh, Gasparelle, you are  _ such  _ a delight!” Kiria says with beyond hyperbolic emotes, “Just like how the sun and stars cannot compare to your beauteous form, your wit betrays your true identity as the Fury’s own incarnation of cleverness!” 

Kiria’s haughty laughter grates on W’sidra’s ears but she does her best to obscure her vomiting behind the lid of the tray she is carrying. She is a professional after all.

The aura about the crowd of men and women at the centre of the cafe is almost disgustingly sweet. Dressed in a suit tailored to her dimensions perfectly by Haermhimal, Kiria sits at the centre of attention, lavishing praise and poetry upon the noble patrons of The Fury’s Tart.

As useless a captain as she may be, Kiria is certainly an experienced conwoman, and is as comfortable lying through her teeth as she is breathing. The Songs of the Wind made a point not to inquire upon each other’s histories beyond the obvious, but W’sidra sometimes wonders what kind of noble life the woman had led in Garlemald. She seemed a little too comfortable impersonating the rich and powerful, after all.

“My dearest swan of light,” Kiria takes another swooning Elezen lady’s chin in her hand and stares deeply into her eyes, “Only in your eyes can hope for the world be truly found. When the darkness of the Dragonsong War encroaches upon our walls, one need only peer into the boundless depths of your wondrous pools to find evidence that Fate itself indeed smiles upon us. Why else would a creature of such utter perfection grace us if not as evidence of true divine favour?”

“Oh my, Marquise de Valchignie, oh, I never…”

“Please.” Kiria brushes a strand of hair out of the woman’s face, and gently drags a finger across her cheek, “Call me Karaline.”

A flutter of sighs and a few exaggerated faintings occur all around her as the nobles continue throwing themselves at the beautiful woman begging for the slightest modicum of attention. They coo and sigh at her every word, and flutter their eyelashes and straighten their backs every time her gaze passes.

Meanwhile, behind the counter of the fine dining cafe, a number of the elegantly dressed waiters and waitresses discreetly empty the contents of their stomachs into the trash bins.

There’s just something about the excessively simpering sugary behaviour that just makes third parties cringe so hard their bodies react as if they ingested poison. At least that’s certainly how W’sidra feels having to witness these devastatingly cheesy lines come out of her Captain’s mouth. She can feel a piece of her soul fracture and return to the Lifestream of its own volition with every effusive word coming out of the woman’s mouth.

The plan had sounded horrible when it was presented to them, as all of Kiria’s plans went. There was some doubt about their chances for success without the Blade’s otherworldly martial strength to fall back on, but the Songs of the Wind had already a number of strange accomplishments tucked in their belts even before they had accidentally fished the girl out of a Garlean prison.

With Ciriana running around the continent singlehandedly fighting the Dragonsong War with a harem of good looking people four times her height, the rest of the Songs of the Wind would have to resort to their wits and wits alone without the safety net of a one woman army’s presence.

The topic of the Blade’s behaviour had been somehow taboo amongst the crew. They were all worried about her, and Brynhilde’s report of the girl being somehow  _ too  _ effectively recovered was disturbing at best. 

Even so, it had been the unspoken rule that the Songs’ duty in protecting the world, or more importantly, in protecting the Warrior of Light, was to give her a home she could always return to. They were the ones that rescued her when she was captured. They were the ones whose shoulders she cried on when the responsibility of saving the world grew too heavy. They would not interfere with her journey unless asked. No matter what decisions the girl made with respect to her duty or the fate of the world, they would support her as her family.

And so here they are, the endless ambitions of a Sky Pirate march ever onward, even if they find themselves one woman short. Kiria working her way in from the top, seducing every noble she saw, and W’sidra, diligently working her way into a catering position while Brynhilde set all her competition on fire.

“That new woman looks...odd…” the head waitress regards the centre of attention with an arched eyebrow.

“A little...meaty.” another waiter agrees, the area behind the confectionary display case growing into the employee gossip area.

W’sidra offers them a dismissive shrug, eager to move the topic away from Kiria’s appearance.

“Who knows how much inbreedin’ happens that far up north.”

There’s a self righteous gasp from some of the higher born employees, but the rest suppress a few snickers.

“I think she’s dreamy…”

“I’m not paying you to ogle and gossip about the nobles!” the store owner hisses at them all, “Make yourselves at least  _ look _ busy!”

The crowd disperses, and none of them take the time to wonder about her pureblood Garlean physique or the strategically placed circlet covering her third eye.

The fake ears on Kiria’s head are well made, but the musculature of Garleans while of similar height to Elezen, is startlingly different. This ludicrous disguise would not go undetected by even the most idiotic of Elezen in the Twelveswood, but so isolated are these Ishgardian nobles, and so smitten are they with the woman’s powerful beauty, they don’t even entertain the notion that she might not actually be Marquise Karaline de Valchignie. Luckily, none of them seem particularly bright enough to check that there is no actual Valchignie fiefdom and that the location she mentioned simply leads to a nest of vouivres.

With any luck, some of them might try to visit her humble abode and get eaten and that would be one less nausea-inducing simpleton in the world.

Ciriana said that people could not control the circumstances of their births and that the ignorant privilege that some of the Monetarists of Ul’dah showed was not necessarily indicative of them being bad people.

That girl, bless her heart, was kind to a fault. In W’sidra’s opinion, sod them all. They already slept on beds made out of imported feathers, and silks that took a lifetime to sew. They didn’t really  _ need  _ W’sidra’s approval and frankly lost little from her hatred. Unlike their little lizard, her sympathy was only finite, and little would be spared for people who could easily afford to pay to have her offed if her distaste really bothered them.

“You simply  _ must _ attend Madame de Dzemael’s masquerade on the morrow Lady de Valchignie.” a well dressed woman says, excitedly taking Kiria’s hand in hers with as much care and honour as if she were addressing Halone herself. “It would be  _ such _ a travesty if the event of the decade goes unattended by-”

“Shhhhh.” Kiria coos, putting a finger to the woman’s lips, “It is not for events or parties that I have made my way to this heaven. That I might by chance encounter souls pure and beautiful such as yours are sufficient to bring my heart the greatest joy and think this trip truly worthwhile.”

The resulting swooning is so violent, W’sidra almost believes that they must actually be on a ship on the open seas.

All the maidens and men in the small crowd start clamouring for her attention, begging her to allow them the great honour of taking her to the masquerade, for they might just die if they are condemned to have anyone lesser accompany them. And there is no doubt that any competitor would be lesser.

W’sidra secretly hopes that her Captain goes down in history as the biggest mass noble murderer in Ishgardian history, famed for all her victims suffering broken hearts.

Personally, the Pilot thinks her fearless leader is attracting a little too much attention for their planned infiltration, but the Garlean woman is not one for the subtle. Every operation, every heist, every mission they ever did with the exception of the most recent one had to be done as flamboyantly as possible. This meant costumes, fake accents, pretend elezen ears and the most daring and ambitious improvised plans possible.

Much like how W’sidra could only feel truly alive when balancing the lives of the entire crew on her steering wheel, Kiria was very much the same when it came to acting. W’sidra couldn’t quite understand the thrill of the heist that Kiria enjoyed so much, but the woman was cordial enough to ensure enough life threatening danger to necessitate a high speed chase most of the time, so W’sidra allowed her a few eccentricities without complaint. After all, they weren’t in the pirating business for the profit.

“Hey, S’boje,” one of the cafe employees beckons to her from the backroom, “Do you have a moment?”

W’sidra dutifully follows the man to the back.

The middle aged Hyur baker seems to be losing hair over the recent stress pertaining to the Dzemael event, a significant portion of that stress directly caused by the Songs of the Wind routinely incapacitating all of his employees. W’sidra has a tinge of sympathy for the man, but such thoughts take the backburner to her desire to have their Engineer back.

“So I just got word from Syonele, it seems her home was set ablaze just last night.” the man begins, scratching furiously at his forehead, a tic that likely did his receding hairline few favours.

“Thankfully she and her belongings are mostly unharmed, but the ordeal has her a bit out of sorts...by the Fury’s grace I swear there must be an arsonist out to get me…”

W’sidra shrugs. “It’ll be nothin’ but trouble tryin’ to get the Temple Knights to actually look into it though.” she says morosely, doing her best to mimic the local Brume cadence, “Lucky she ain’t hurt none.”

“Well either way, I told you about the big event we’ve been prepping for the past fortnight, and with Syonele occupied, I need more hands.”

“When’s this event?” W’sidra asks, acting as if she actually has a weekend of activities that are not kidnapping planned.

“Tomorrow night. I’m sorry for the short notice, but pay will be double, and after the event, there’s leftovers in servant’s room. Best meat you’ll ever taste, I swear by the Fury.”

W’sidra looks about, as if considering it.

“The...experience with the nobles will be good for you.too. Etiquette and such experience helps a lad or lass get places in these parts..”

“Sure, I guess I’ll do it.” W’sidra says finally, “Just lemme know the time and place, I’ll be there, and hopefully nobody smokes me outta me own place ‘afore then.”

“Excellent.” The man says, a hint of relief showing in his face, “We’ll have to train you on serving nobles and all the proper etiquette. Attend to the noble...party in the lounge there.” 

The man’s face is surprisingly schooled as he gestures towards Kiria’s flock of preening magpies.

“First lesson, try not to look so disgusted with them when you’re addressing them.” the man says, watching her face, “If possible, try to look like a plant.”

“Eadwald will show you the ropes and give you some tips. These ones are docile and...distracted, shouldn’t give you much trouble.”

W’sidra delays her grumbling to the moment the store owner turns his back. She is a professional after all.

“Surely the sweetness of these cupcakes are as ash upon my lips when compared to the feast that your very presence fills my heart with.”

W’sidra does her best to school her face and stop herself from visibly cringing.

“But alas, having lived a life as the delectable treat you are, perhaps you cannot experience the absolute ecstasy that is basking in your presence. But perhaps another divine brioche will show you a pinch of the glory that the rest of us must experience when beholding you.”

W’sidra arrives dutifully with a small tray of more sugary baked goods, doing her best not to sneer or cringe at the small party.

Kiria pays her no special attention, but takes a croissant off of the tray and slowly unravels its twists with her tongue before presenting it to the woman she was addressing. The girl just falls over dead outright. Or maybe just unconscious. There’s a big show of fanning her and showing concern.

Nobody points out that she picked a croissant instead of a brioche. Or maybe they can’t actually tell. Prior to today, W’sidra really couldn’t.

Rhalgr’s balls she hates these people. She doesn’t show it on her face though. That doesn’t stop her from slipping the unconscious young woman’s coin pouch out of her purse though. She  _ is _ a professional after all.

“My, your luxurious tail reminds me of the fine silks of the Jeweld Crozier.”

A number of gasps and croons of agreement arise from the group as the attention is refocused onto W’sidra.

She lets out a very obvious and audible sigh, that goes completely unnoticed by the pile of sheltered idiots enamoured with her tail.

This is going to be a long day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brynhilde is just about the best arsonist but Haermhimal gets in the way of her art by making sure she doesn't set any people or significant valuables on fire.   
> They're Sky Pirates after all, not brigands.  
> He's busy preparing their masquerade outfits after spending a good amount of time investigating and studying Ishgardian fashion trends.  
> Kiria is not willing to attend a party if she's not going to be the prettiest one there.
> 
> Simonaud is trapped in the Dzemael household and has had to listen to about 7 years worth of celebrity gossip from his aunt. He really wants to go back to the Manufactory and "help" them out more but his aunt is paying a bit more attention to him this week.


End file.
